Caged
by chemical violets
Summary: The story of the life and unfiltered thoughts of Gray Fullbuster from ages ten to eighteen. Shows Gray and the moments and people that affect him-friendships, girlfriends, parents, music, etc. Some kind of an ode to life. eventual graylu / HIGH T / sad, dark, honestly a bit like an indie coming of age film
1. Prologue: Welcome

**A/N** I feel it is necessary to say in advance that yes, Gray's "dad" in this is an OC named Jacob but only because I HAVE A PLAN FOR GRAY'S PARENTS. I have my reasons for why Mika and Silver are not his parents in this.

 **Warnings:** Cussing, semi-mature content, _lots_ of religious talk

Please, no one try to correct me on how I describe his catholic school in the first few parts, I went to catholic school from preschool to 3rd grade before switching to public school. I remember the system quite well ;)

 **CAGED**

 **AGE 10 (2007)**

 **Part 1: _Welcome_**

There are approximately 53 people in the combined space between my living room and front hall. I counted. Heads of blonde, brown, black and red as they mill about, voices sewn together in one collective murmur.

I watch them from the staircase of my new house. My father's colleagues, college buddies and every friend he's ever made has gathered and honestly, I wonder why they didn't just move in with us if they were going to travel all this way for a housewarming party. Most of them drove nearly nine and a half hours from Isvan Toronto to Magnolia Pennsylvania just for a night-long party.

A few new neighbors file in. I guess now this is an open house. I count their heads as they walk in. One, two, three, four, five, six. There are now 59 people just in this space and I honestly don't see how we can fit any more people in our townhouse. My blue eyes flitter to my brother setting up our small speaker on the cart my dad uses for all house functions. Somehow Lyon ended up with such platinum blonde hair it's basically silver.

My father shoulders his way through the crowd, grins and calls of, "Jacob!" can be heard as he greets his old friends. I sometimes wonder if his friends would still be his friends if they knew the Jacob Milkovich I did.

Mom and Ultear follow close behind him, Mom's smile to passing guests kind, Ultear's stiff and formal. The females of the family are nearly carbon copies of each other, with the same purple-brown hair and deep brown eyes. Ultear is the oldest and I myself am the youngest.

My father picks up the microphone, which blares in response with a loud screech as 60 heads flinch simultaneously. His head whips towards Lyon and hisses as him with a hand over the microphone just loud enough for me to hear, "Tape it in the speaker if you have to, I don't want this happening during my speech." If the guests heard too, they don't acknowledge it. Lyon reaches onto the mantle and grabs a roll of duct tape my dad keeps perched for occasions like this, squatting down and taping the wire in place.

When the low buzz dies down my dad smiles, tapping the microphone and saying, "Hello, hello, hi… hi, can I-can I have your attention please." The game goes on for another minute or so until the crowd finally looks his way and quiets down and he grins at them.

"Thank you." My father's voice is sickly sweet and overly happy when addressing friends and guests, and I vaguely wonder if he's ever used his real tone of voice around them.

"Thank you so much for coming to our housewarming parties. You all took time out of your lives to send us off to Magnolia, Pennsylvania and for that we thank you. The journey from Isvan, Quebec was long and tiring and we are so grateful you would face that trip to give us a final goodbye. Even though they need no introduction, I would like to present my beautiful family to you all." He speaks with flourishing hand and arm movements as he half turns to my family grouped behind him, feigning shock when he notices I'm not amongst them. I don't know why he keeps this act going every time—I'm never there when he begins the "introductions."

"Well where has my dear son gone off to?" He asked to air, a hand on his hip as he fakes puzzlement. This jig always gets a laugh from the audience and I try to decide whether his repetitive actions are getting old to them too, or if they're genuinely amused by the dance we do every time a group is present. He and I make eye contact as he finds me still perched on the staircase like I had been since the first guests began filing through our wine red front door.

"C'mon up here, Gray, you're a part of this family too. Such a shy little bugger, this one, always preferring the stairs to the sofa. That wild mane of hair too. I swear this kid thinks he's Billie Joe Armstrong." The horde of people chuckles in one loud roar, turning towards me as I push myself off the dark mahogany stairs. I feel their eyes on me as mine remain trained on the rug path on the staircase.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea as they make a path for me in the packed living room. I hate how my dad draws this attention to me. It's the same song and dance and the same awkward embarrassment every time.

I take my rightful place at the end of the line of kids, my mom smiling down at me as she ruffles my hair. The crowd sees a picture perfect family, what they didn't see was the thorough inspection of the entire house and our own beings before they arrived.

Ultear passed the inspection with flying colors, her bedroom spotless, boxes hidden, and hair neat without a single flyaway. Lyon would've passed too if it weren't for a sloppily tied tie and a clump of his spiky hair that he accidently left drooping downwards. Dad doesn't like the look completely, but he figures if Lyon insists on keeping it, he should at least have it neat. He reminded us as he licked his hand and used the saliva to plaster the platinum strands in an upwards position. I fail miserably, a box still in the corner of my room, my colored pencils still spilled across the wooden floor, the dark blue one caught in my rug, and my hair sticking out in different directions.

My mom defended me, saying that I'm only 10. I commented weakly that as long as no one goes in my room it should be fine, right? Wrong. My dad smacks the mantle of the fire place and then yells, "That's not the _point_. We have _guests_ coming. And when guests come you prepare for them, _get it_?"

My father begins speaking to the crowd again, placing a hand on Ultear's shoulder as he smiles at her. "This, is my daughter, Ultear Milkovich. My only daughter and oldest child. Lucky for her, she got Ur's looks. At only 15, she was an alter server at our old church and she intends to do so here, always the top of her classes and everything." The mob claps as he moves on to Lyon.

"This is my athletic young son, 13 year old Lyon Vastia-Milkovich." It's probably a good time to mention that Lyon and I weren't born to my current parents. My dad, liking people to think he gives us freewill, let us keep our original first and last names, simply slapping his onto the end of it. I think he was hoping we would drop the old family markers completely, but I didn't want to forget my original last name and neither did Lyon. Vastia and Fullbuster were a part of us.

"When Ur wanted to adopt a child, I steadily agreed, but I told her straightforward, 'That pretty young girl over there looks just like you, I want this boy to feel like he belongs here.' In other words, I want a son who looks somewhat like me." The crowd roars with laughter and I flinch when the microphone picks up the noise as well.

My dad certainly got his wish. Despite having a father different from Dad, Lyon somehow has his dark, slanted eyes, the same nose and a similar jawline. It's almost as though God knew he'd be adopted by the man.

"I never kept his origin from him either, if he wants to ever find his old parents, that's fine by me. But moving on, Lyon is our star athlete of the family, pitcher of the baseball team, always picked first for gym class. I just know this boy is going to go to the big leagues. Give us a swing, Lyon."

Lyon rolls his eyes as he steps forward and half-heartedly swings his arms, hands cupped as though holding a bat.

My father then arrives to me.

"And last but certainly not least, we have the baby of the family, Grayson Fullbuster-Milkovich. Of course, he insists on being called Gray. He's nearly eleven. He draws. Always lost in his own little world of colored pencils and music. Gray's taking piano lessons and already plays a mean _When the Saints Come Marching In_. Training to be the piano player for church choir." Lies. I play piano because I wanted to. My dad can't stand my creative genes, saying that it'll all lead to dead-end jobs. He curses my birth parents for instilling the traits on me daily. It took my mom telling him I could play piano for church to convince him to let me learn at all.

"Like Lyon, I wanted to give this young boy a home that he could feel safe and loved in. He may stick out like a sore-thumb appearance wise with that wild black hair, but he's as much a part of this family as Ultear and Lyon." A collective _aww_ rises from the room. "Whoever his parents are, I'm certainly grateful that they gave me this bright young boy. The second I saw those crystal-clear, liquid dark blue eyes, I knew he was my son. I could practically feel him _begging_ me to take him from that adoption center."

Dad's lying. I know it. My mother told me she chose me out when I asked last year if this story was true.

"I treat him like he's my own son." This is true, despite having different birth fathers than him, my dad treats Lyon and I like he conceived us. I occasionally wish he didn't. I'd rather not be treated like I don't belong, but he doesn't have the most stellar behavior towards his _own_ children either.

"And finally we have my beautiful wife, Ur Milkovich. The mother of my children, the love of my life. The only woman for me." _Awwwww_. My mom smiles at him a bit as he goes through the motions of telling the men to back off— _she's his_.

Finally the ceremony is done and I hop off the stone ledge in front of the fire place and try to return to the staircase. My father's voice stops me as he leads us into an empty room.

"Ultear great job with the smiles; Lyon we could do without the eye rolls; Gray—God _dammit_ Lyon, unplug that annoying speaker, I can't hear myself think—Gray, try to pay attention more next time. Smile at the right times. You looked like a zombie up there. Ur, how did the speech sound?"

"Great, honey."

"Do you think everyone heard?"

"I really don't know."

"Gray, was there anyone in the kitchen or dining room when you left the stairs?" Ah, yes— _this_ is why my dad lets me stay in my chosen perches while getting the guest's attention, so I can check the kitchen for stray people.

"I dunno, Dad."

"You don't _know_? How do you _not know_?"

"I forgot to check." My dad sighs loudly, putting his hand to his forehead as the he clenches his teeth. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows his saliva.

"That's just _great_. This is priceless. You _forgot_ to check." He puts his hands on my head and shakes it. If he were retelling a story where he did this to "shake" some other idea into my head, it was a _playful_ wobble. He and I must have different memories, not that mine is the best, as he often reminds me, but I can remember the difference between the playful jiggle and a violent, exorcism-like, pulsating shove. "Do you have _anything_ going on in that head of yours? Huh?" I nod slowly.

" _Words_ , Grayson. Use your _damn_ words."

"Yes."

"Really? Because I don't think you do." He lets go of my head, Lyon catching my shoulder before I fall backwards as he returns from unplugging the speaker. He gives me a sad smile. My dad forces a grin on his face and returns to the living room, where he gets into a friendly debate about the Toronto Maple Leaf's chance of winning this season with Mr. Stevens. I hear his opening statement of _that crazy family of mine, huh?_

My mom asks me quietly if I'm alright after she gives me a vague explanation to try and warrant his actions. She knows the answer will be yes. He does this too often for the answer to be no. I'm too used to it.

I finally manage to slip through the crowd and return to my bedroom upstairs. I can hear Meg Rogers and James Byron making out in the bathroom like they often do at house gatherings. It's still better than listening to another false, overly cheery impression from my father.

Lyon knocks on my doorframe as he passes and smiles. "Don't let him get to you, Gray. Dad's an overly religious cock-sucker, who despite worshiping God every five seconds, curses like a fucking sailor. We all know it."

I laugh shortly as Lyon walks into my room and picks up the drawing on my floor. A sketch of another one of our house parties, the guests blurry and my dad in the center of it, my family members clear as crystal in their positions in the room. It's bad, and I know it. After all, I'm ten. What can I do? But Lyon just grins at me and ruffles my hair.

"Looks good, kid." He's only three years older than me yet insists on calling me kid. I don't mind. It's better than some of the things Dad's dubbed us. "Well, I'd better get back down there before the warden finds me. You coming?" I shake my head and Lyon gives one more slanted smirk before leaving the room, his dress shoes clacking down the wooden panels in the hallway then pounding down the stairs.

My family isn't all bad. Even my dad has good nestled somewhere within him; I just wish he'd get better at showing it.


	2. Part 1: The Rosary

**Chapter Warnings:** Lots of religious talk, extremely unfiltered thoughts, some mature content, minor cussing

ALMOST 5,000 WORDS! WOOOOO!

Enjoy!

 **CAGED**

 **10 YEARS OLD (2007)**

 **ONE WEEK EARLIER**

 ** _Part 1: The Rosary_**

I watch my older brother as he leans back on the bus seat, bible over his eyes and breathing even as his chest rises and falls calmly. It's much different to his ragged breaths after a baseball game. Ultear chats with her friend in the seat ahead of us, her posture straight as an arrow as they gossip about the "cute" male alter server they work with. Despite her strict nature, Ultear can be pretty cool (and scary), and I'll take boy gossip over lectures any day.

There's a calming nature to the bus. Most kids hate it—standing on the corner, sitting with a group of loud kids. At least that's how they portray it in the movies. I don't know if it's just because I go to a catholic school but that's not how it is at all here.

Especially on rainy days like this, where the water is tapping its rhythmic tune on the roof of the bus, the heater spitting out puffs of dust occasionally, the rain running down the windows in intricate spider-web designs, the bus is quite calming. There's a murmur of voices in one united hum as my classmates speak to each other.

A puff of wind brushes against my skin as a girl named Sherry whisks past me. Sherry is nearly two years older than Lyon, turning fifteen in February—she's in Ultear's grade. Our school is a K-12 thing. She walks so fast past me that her skirt—hiked up to be _way_ shorter than a catholic school skirt should be—flies up behind her and I catch a preview of her lacy undergarments. Why a fourteen-year-old wears such risky clothes I don't know.

Sherry has outlandish pink hair and porcelain skin, and her lips are always a glossy pink color. She taps on Lyon's shoulder and he pulls the book off his eyes in anger.

"Gray, wake me up again and I'll kill you." Sherry coughs, flashing Lyon a coy smile as he catches a glimpse of her in the corner of his eyes.

Lyon often says Sherry is the hottest girl in school because she wears a blouse that's two sizes too small and has tits bigger than most of the teachers already. He says I'll understand when I'm older. I'm not sure I want to.

Despite liking her body, Lyon will never share the feelings for Sherry she clearly feels for him—she's too obsessive. Ultear likes to tell me that our brother will never hold a girlfriend because he already "thinks with his dick." It's like our inside joke.

Lyon turns to Sherry, his dark eyes making small flickering movements up her curvy form, memorizing her body before we move away in a week. I know she notices it, but she basks in the glory and I think she even shoves her arms a bit closer to accentuate her cleavage, but I couldn't care less because when Lyon turns around I catch a glimpse of something.

A necklace of wooden beads spilling from his pocket. A rosary. Lyon's rosary. It's Rosary Day and I don't feel mine in my pocket.

"Lyon…" He waves me off.

" _Lyon_." He ignores me once again so I give up, lean forward and seize Ultear's cardigan sleeve.

"Ultear, I forgot my rosary." She stops midsentence and turns to me incredulously.

"You _forgot_ your rosary?" I nod, tears stinging the back of my eyes and an incredibly thick lump in my throat.

"Shit, Gray," she cusses as she turns in her chair. "One day a month you need a rosary and you choose today to be forgetful?" I nod again. I'm screwed. I am so screwed.

The Milkovich Family Rules are like our own Ten Commandments but with far more than ten expectations. Rule #4 is and I quote:

 _Anything to dishonor God and/or His teachings are prohibited. Therefore you shall not break any school rules, most important being:_

 _A._ _No inappropriate or offensive clothing._

 _B._ _Uniforms must always be fastened properly._

 _C._ _Do not speak rudely to or about a teacher, priest or peer._

 _D._ _Never question God's word._

 _E._ _Never_ _forget your rosary on Rosary Day, as it shows your supposed lack of respect for the prayers of our dear Lord and Savior._

Lyon grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me back onto the bus bench, rolling his eyes when he sees the tears that are blurring my vision. Whatever comfort the bus provided is gone, and now the rain is just noise accelerating the beating of my heart.

"Jesus Christ, you _cannot_ honestly be crying." When I refuse to answer, Lyon rolls his eyes and mutters something I can't decipher before he and Ultear converse in their older sibling way.

"Do you have your cell phone?" Lyon asks.

"Yea, why?"

"Call Mom and have her bring it."

"Dr. Brown will _never_ let that slide."

Dr. Brown is my teacher. He is a burly man with graying red hair and a thick beard. He's very religious and when he lectures us about God his pasty skin turns red, a vein in his head pops forward and his Adam's apple bobs underneath the parts of his beard that have grown onto his chin and neck.

"Well we're halfway to school and our idiot brother is crying his eyes out so what else do we do?"

Ultear leans forward and reaches into her backpack, successfully blocking herself from my vision as she settles back into her chair. I'm too short to see over the seat. I listen to her talk to my mother until Lyon grabs me by the shoulders again and turns me towards him. He looks me square in the eyes with those slanting black eyes. It reminds me of when Dad lectures me and blue and black clash with grinding anger.

"Gray, in case Mom doesn't get there in time, take this." I look at his now outstretched hand and see the beads hanging from the parted space between his fingers, the kind of cheap crystalline plastic ones you get at the craft store. I recognize the thin, worn in string and those blue beads well. It's one of the crappy rosaries the first grade teacher has all her students make. Lyon keeps it in case he forgets his.

"If this isn't good enough for your cock-sucker teacher, tell him next week you're moving to the States next week where you'll be praising every star on the flag, becoming a democrat and eating cheeseburgers on Fourth of July." I grin through my tears; my teacher is a conservative vegan who hates America and everyone in it.

When we arrive at school the bus puffs out a cloud of steam as it stops, the heating shutting off abruptly as the doors swing open. The bus driver snubs her cigarette in the ashtray on the dashboard, the flame sizzling into a low ember then disappearing after burning out the small remnants of the paper.

A Canadian chill settles in my bones as I near the doors—even though Canadian Thanksgiving just passed last Monday on the eighth, its freezing cold in Toronto already, as it often is this time of the year, and the rain feels like it could turn to snow any second. I can imagine my cheeks turning red, my nose chapping at the end from the windy air.

After entering the school I stand in the staircase doorway and watch as Lyon and Ultear pad upstairs to the upper grade classes before making my way down the wide, straight hallway, halfway down to the fifth grade classroom.

I see Dr. Brown holding the door open for his students as they file in sporadically, uniforms all covered in dark spots from the rainfall. My teacher's own outfit is dry and his dark red hair is falling in those tight ringlets. He glances me over as I slip through the doorframe. I feel his dark eyes bearing into my back. His gaze makes me shiver more than the open windows as they allow drops of water and wind in.

The classroom has mint green walls and worn brown rugs, just like the hallways. Two of the four walls are brick, the others plaster, and the brick wall leading towards the outdoors houses a line of big, dirty windows. The windows are the kind you push forwards. They open up like a door for snow and wind to whip through the class. It's no wonder everyone in my class keeps their school jackets on constantly.

I sit in my spot in the corner of the room, tapping my fingers incessantly. Only now I'm not tapping the tune of a song I inevitably have stuck in my head, but from sheer nerves. No one notices—I'm always stuck in the corner of the room, sometimes alone, because my tapping is distracting, but not even Dr. Brown, one of the strictest teachers in the school, can stop it. In addition to that, I'm always stuck at the end of the table because as a left-handed individual, I elbow people. A lot.

I've almost calmed myself down the mantra of _Mom will make it_ when Maria Avery rushes in, maroon cardigan damp from the rain, ginger hair falling in stringy, flat strands, brandishing a new rosary of shiny pink, wooden beads.

As she shows off her new religious trinket to her friends I interrupt her speech.

"Maria?" Her dark brown eyes survey me with skepticism as I continue and I suppress a shudder at her hard gaze. "You don't happen to have your old rosary with you, do you? I can pay you if you let me borrow it just for today—who needs lunch, right?"

She crosses her arms in an Ultear-like fashion. "And where's _your_ rosary, Gray? I remember you having a real nice one, with that red wood and all." She's mocking me. I know she is. She thinks that I get the nice rosaries because I have a lot of money, in reality I get it because my father will barely spend a penny on anything not religious.

"I forgot it."

Maria laughs, shoulders shaking in giggles, her red hair shaking and splattering the clouds' tears on the front of my maroon polo shirt. Her yellow blouse is becoming extremely see-through in the collar-bone region from her short hair.

Behind her, her best friend Rose's face lights up in ecstatic joy as she laughs in her mocking chortle, fawn brown hair bouncing lightly—the rain seemingly never touched her. When she laughs she screeches like a bat. Rose has hated me since I pulled her hair in first grade. I really don't see how she blames me—those brown curls are tauntingly bouncy, and it's inevitable to get a few hair tugs.

"Gray forgot his rosary," she chants in a sing-song voice. I grit my teeth, praying Dr. Brown hadn't heard.

"Shut up, Rose," I mutter through a clenched jaw. A tan had claps my right shoulder as Danny, a blonde haired boy, walks past.

"Good luck, Fullbuster." He snickers as he speaks, walking off towards his friends. We've had the same people in our class since kindergarten, some of us have even been together since preschool. Oh, the joys of Catholic school. Strict teachers and little to no opportunities to meet new people. I never fit in with the crowds at school, which concerned Lyon and Ultear more and more every time I quietly listen to them talk with their friends, perched on the curb with nothing but a stick and chocolate-colored dirt to keep me company.

Just like in my family, I stick out like a sore thumb in class. There are others with black strands of hair, but theirs are pure onyx, not the blueish raven that mine is. Paper white skin tacked at the end of a line of normally colored kids. Even Maria is tanner than me, and gingers are naturally less pigmented. Maybe she's a genetic weirdo like me. Well, I suppose it isn't fair to call myself a genetic weirdo, maybe with my birth parents I would fit right in.

The bell rings in its shrill, old fashioned way. The building is so old they still have school bells that pounds a metal knob into the bell and produces an ear-splitting shriek. Dr. Brown sweeps in and the door slams shut when he arrives at his desk. His eyes sweep over the class in silent roll call before he sits down heavily, the wheeled chair sliding backwards slightly from the force of his weight.

"Alright class," he begins in his formal, angry voice. I wonder if something happened to him to make him this stiff. Maybe he had a dad like mine. I hope not. I wouldn't hope for anyone to have him as their father. "Today, as you _should_ know, is Rosary Day. Take yours out so I can give you your participation grade. Every time you mess up or goof off, 5% is taken off of that 100, so be smart, _please_." He's not allowed to do this. He's not even supposed to take a grade for having our rosary, let alone take points off for messing up.

"In ten minutes the assistant principal will come on the loudspeaker to lead the-"

A buzzing from our classroom speaker signals a private intercom message to my class specifically.

"Or now?"

 _Dr. Brown, please send Grayson Fullbuster to the office. Grayson Fullbuster to the office._

My teacher's eyes narrow on me as my name is announced, but he still walks over to the button that activates our speaker's microphone and calls out.

"Sending Grayson Fullbuster to the office."

I've never stood up faster in my life as I rush out the door. Mom made it just in time.

She's standing at the end of the hallway. Her sweater's shoulders are sprinkled in rainwater, her purple umbrella dripping steadily onto the carpet. I see the red beads hanging from the palm of her hand.

She gives me a quick hug before pushing me lightly towards my class. "Go." She laughs as she talks, clearly not upset that she had to use her day off to deliver me a rosary I was too forgetful to remember. She can't stand my teacher. My mom thinks he's too strict and too harsh on us. My dad loves him. He thinks that his forceful ways will mold us into model citizens. I think my father and my teacher should get together and go bowling.

An incredible weight has been lifted from my shoulders as I turn the old, rusting door knob and enter the cold classroom with a creaking sign.

Dr. Brown has a bible in his hands and he continues reading as he glances my way, suddenly stopping when he notices the rosary in my hands. Crap. I didn't have the rosary when I left the class.

I blush and quickly tuck it behind my back, standing still under his watchful, austere gaze. The mint green suddenly seems too bright, the carpet too dank, the eyes of my classmates too many.

My teacher smiles warmly, but it's laced with malice and disgust. It's the same grin my dad gives me when I do something stupid before he either tries to "shake some sense into me" or yells in my face.

"Gray," Dr. Brown begins, his eyes dripping with a sickening mix of artificial tenderness and pure evil. "Did your mom drop that off for you?"

I nod slowly, I can feel my eyes widen. Everything seems to be more intense. Voices are louder. Colors are brighter. The wind is sharper. I can hear Rose and Maria snicker towards each other, and catch sight of the brunette lean sideways, tuck her friend's ginger hair behind her ear to clear a path for her whispery voice.

"So you _forgot_ it?" I nod again. The room is getting incredibly stuffy, and the cold is biting my skin. Dr. Brown reaches forwards and curls his fingers around the necklace, giving it a gentle tug.

"Well I'm afraid I can't give you credit for this. I'll need you to hand over the rosary now." I tighten my grasp on the rosary. He's yanking harder now, and it seems as though he's about ready to clasp a cold, hairy hand on my wrist and force it from my fingers.

My prediction reigns true as he grabs my thin wrist and pulls in it in the opposite direction of my religious necklace. "Stop," I whimper.

He keeps pulling, now pulling my arm towards him and the rosary to the side. My classmates finally fall silent as they watch the struggle. My teacher can overreact a lot, but he's never laid a hand on a student for this long _or_ this hard.

"Grayson, you're being extremely disrespectful to our God." He finally rips it from my grasp and begins to saunter away, the red orbs shaking tauntingly as the droop towards the ground.

I just don't get it. How does not having a _damn_ rosary every time disrespect God? The prayer should matter, not the object you hold while you say it.

I don't know what possessed me—maybe it was God punishing me for doubting the significance of a cord of wooden beads—but I suddenly lunge forward and grab the rosary, ripping it from my teacher's hands.

The string snaps, and suddenly it's not just raining water. It's raining red beads around me, and each one seems to fall in slow motion before returning to regular speed as it crashed into the ground, bouncing away in different directions. I watch them as they fall. One rolls to a brunette named Amanda's foot. Another bounces off of Adam's book laying on the ground. A few roll under the teacher's desk. One finds its home mockingly in the shadow of my jacket. A single red bead is laying in my half-bent fingers.

The whole class is silent. Not even Rose or Maria pick up a bead and roll it sardonically between their fingers. Sometimes, quiet is peaceful, calming. Other times, quiet is violent, and this particular silence is quite ferocious.

My eyes finally turn their blue gaze towards my teacher and I discover him staring down at me, nostrils flared, fists clenched, skin red and that same vein popping from his forehead.

I suddenly find myself wondering how much more trouble I could get in if I did the unthinkable. The things no one would ever _imagine_ I do. If I grabbed a bead off the ground and chucked it at Rose's smug face. If I tore Maria's new rosary into shreds like I did mine and shrieked _Ammo!_ at the top of my lungs. If I took Adam's book off the ground and chucked it at Dr. Brown's face. If I gathered the beads up and tossed them across the room as though skipping stones across a lake. If I took Danny's baseball cards hidden in his desk and tore them up. If I shoved the beads down Dr. Brown's throat like pills before taking off down the hall. I do this often. Imagine the things I _could_ do but never would.

My teacher grabs me by the wrist again and drags me towards his desk where he pulls out those legendary pink slips I've only ever imagined in my mind.

I watch him scrawl out my full name and other details on the paper in his scratchy handwriting.

NAME: Grayson Fullbuster

AGE: Ten years old

GRADE: Four

REASON: Destroyed a rosary after forgetting it. Left tattered remains of the sacred instrument on the ground.

REQUEST: 1 week suspension

OUTCOME:

He leaves the _OUTCOME_ line blank. It's up to administration now. The prayer going on over the loudspeaker has been long forsaken.

He shoves me out into the hall and points down the passage towards the office—I suppose he's too angry for words now.

I hear the voices of my classmates explode into action behind me as I shuffle down the hall, feeling my teacher's eyes on my retreating form.

I look down at the pink slip. It's less legendary now that I see one with my _own_ name written down. It's just a slip of paper with black words printed on it. Lyon's friend, Dana has gotten tons of pink slips. I remember them from the time they let me tag along with them as they hung out. Dana has them plastered on his wall like trophies. He even claims to have held charged tours of them for our goody-two-shoes peers. I don't know if I believe that. When I saw the older kid's, they seemed mythical. It seemed like a dragon—surreal and unattainable. But now that I have one of my own, it just seems like what it is: a piece of paper flimsy enough to tear from the slightest gust of wind. But that paper has the power to destroy my life.

I turn the knob to the office with a shaking hand, the secretary looking up as the old door creaks open. I walk up to her desk, paper clenched in my fist as my feet shuffle across the worn rug. I unclench my fingers and hand the woman the slip, eyes falling on a jar of expired butterscotch, molded together with old age.

Through her reading glasses she observes the paper, dark red eyes scanning the words. Her desk tag says "Porlyusica."

With a loud _hmph_ she stands, leading me to Principal's office, past the AP's office where the woman is doing the rosary service over the announcements. The golden words of the principal's office gleam down at me menacingly in the patchy light. The secretary raps on the door before swinging it open, the wooden blockade hitting the wall with a band, the wall shuddering with its rattling creak.

The principal surveys me in shock as he motions for me to sit; it was normal for Lyon to turn up in his office, the secretary's hand clasped on his shoulder, but I was the quiet one—the shy kid who remained unknown in a school of just 160 kids.

I watched him pull out my information and saw him slowly tap out dad's number.

"He's at work," I burst out. Not a lie, Dad's in a bank office typing numbers into a calculator. The principal rolls his eyes, starting over and this time placing mom's cell phone number into the machine. It's the second time mom today has had to use her day off for me.

The one-sided conversation falls on deaf ears, the only sound I hear is my own beating heart. I don't know how much time passes but very soon Ms. Porlyusica slams the door open before stopping away and my mom is behind me, a pale hand on my shoulder.

She takes a seat next to me, slight anger in her eyes as the principal recounts the accusations. Whether said anger is targeted towards me or the teacher is unknown.

"Gray." By mom's commanding tone I realize she must've been calling me for a while. "Show me your rosary."

I advert my gaze, holding out the single red bead that I've held in my hand the whole time. With a meek expression I wait as my mom looks at it then hold back a small smile as Mom stifle's a laugh. She hates the catholic school almost as much as us kids. I don't even know if she believes in God, to be honest.

"If I recall properly, Gray told me that Dr. Brown has been giving grades for how _well_ they recite the rosary, which _you_ banned. Fix your employees before they 'fix' the students," Mom says, fuming in anger. "We'll accept the week-long suspension and you may as well pass it on to Lyon and Ultear too after today is over—I don't want my kids in this school again, especially my _youngest_. It's not too late to save him from this over-religious crap. Let's go, Gray."

I follow Mom outside, the office's feeble warmth completely disappearing as cold Canadian, late October wind seeps through my white winter jacket.

Mom unlocks the car to her old Honda—we aren't rich by any stretch, if our old townhouse is any evidence to that, and as the car roars to life dust smacks me in the face as I break the course it chose to follow when it tumbled from the grates of the vent. The heat her car produces is toasty but I'm only slightly warmer than I was in the drafty school—the car's heat only goes so far. Dad has the nicer car despite the fact Mom drives more.

"Mom?" I ask feebly from the backseat. "What'll Dad say?" I hear her sigh as we roll from the parking lot.

"I don't know, sweetie." She pauses before continuing her speech. "How about we get some ice cream?" I grin—Mom knows in my mind it's _never_ too cold for ice cream, even when I'm shivering and sneezing my brains out. Despite my surfacing joy, there's still an underlying tone of fear in my mind. Dad gets mad enough when Lyon's in trouble, and I feel as though the shock of my getting in trouble paired with his clear annoyance for my very being will be a deadly combination.

Mom pulls into a parking lot, stopping the car. I sit there in silence for a moment while the last sparks of heat fizzle out, all remaining warmth escaping out the windows, turning into the cold air around it as the chilly wind accepts it into their world.

I climb out of the car and follow my mother into the small ice cream parlor, the neon sign on the door flashing with the bold red and blue words ICE CREAM. The paint on the glass is chipping, lacing words onto the doors and windows in curvy golden cursive. _Homemade Ice Cream and Frozen Yogurt_.

The bell jingles pleasantly as I follow the tall women in front of me into the room, the aroma that only ice cream parlors manage to create wafting into my nose. I'm greeted by the friendly shop-owner, a woman with cinnamon colored hair and warm chocolate brown eyes.

"Why's Gray-chan not in school?" she asks as she cleans out a glass for us. Mom laughs heartily, finally free from the judging eyes of my administrator.

"Got suspended. He tore up his rosary in front of the entire class." The lady's eyes widen with a mix of shock and amusement. I guess I have a reputation for following the rules. She laughs heartily—her son goes to our school too and she agrees with Mom's opinions of the place. Unfortunately, in our small town, Holy Family Catholic School is one of the only schools around.

Mom orders my normal mint chocolate chip for me, picking out a strawberry ice cream for herself. I watch Mrs. Hanalee (the shop owner) bustle around behind the counter, scraping out the frozen treat for us.

The ice cream shop is chilly, but the warmth is slightly greater than it is outside and I'll take anything I can get. I personally find the chill of Canada refreshing. Mom watches me slowly lick the ice cream from my bowl. It's a ritual Dad hates that I do: ordering a bowl of ice cream then licking it down before reverting to a spoon when the remaining amount is too far down for my small tongue to reach. It makes Ultear roll her eyes; Lyon smirks slightly as he tries not to laugh at me; Dad looks away in embarrassment and Mom smiles at the sight of my quirks surfacing. I think Mom likes using me to spite Dad sometimes. Her eyes hold a certain light when my Dad shows silent annoyance.

Mom asks to see my remaining bead again, rolling the wood in between her thumb and index finger. I stay silent, choosing not to mention Dr. Brown grabbing my wrist unless she asks. That may be harder to hide than I expected however because when I slide up my jacket sleeve there's a bruise forming on my pale skin. I quickly tear the sleeve down before Mom notices my gaze trained downwards. Maybe even if she noticed she wouldn't question why. I look at the ground too often.

My mother stands up as she finished her food, scooping up the garbage and tossing it in the bin. I follow her, hands instinctively grabbing my rosary bead as she tosses it back to me.

"Keep it as some Catholic school memorabilia."

 **A/N** Okay, against my better judgement I decided to post this next chapter before I started the one after it. So I need time to update so how about 10 reviews for an update? I don't know. I'll try and get the next one up in a week or two.

Thanks for reading.


	3. Part 1: Drizzle

**CAGED**

 **10 YEARS OLD (2007)**

 **Part 1: _Drizzle_**

My dad's reaction to my getting suspended (expelled? It's not like I'm going back) is less than pleasant. The vein in his forehead pops out and I watch as his Adam's apple bob with his loud swallow. I consider showing my bruised wrist as some sort of olive branch as he shouts at me across the table. I don't think that would work to quell the storm however. It's not like dad hasn't grabbed my wrist before.

"And you claim to be smart? No one more than idiotic would destroy a rosary. I _try_ to be patient with you Gray, but you just keep trying me. There's only so much you can do before I can't take it anymore. It drives me _insane_."

I avert my gaze, fiddling with the cloth napkin rested on my lap. Lyon kicks me gently under the table, flashing me a small, comforting smile. Dad rants for a few more moments before he turns to my mom.

"Ur, I just cannot _believe_ you took _all_ out of school."

Ultear asks me to pass the salt and I raise my left hand instinctively, flinching as the muscles tighten under my bruised wrist. If anyone notices, they don't show it.

Dad tosses his napkin down on the table, the corner of the striped cloth landing in a pile of buttery green beans, the moisture formed on top of it gathering on his napkin, turning the blue a darker shade. He leaves the room quickly, the jingling of keys being pulled from the table signals his departure to drive through the streets and calm down. It won't work. It never does.

As soon as I hear the car roar to life I hop from my seat, shoving the rusty back door open and leap off the back porch's steps onto the cool grass. The family in the other half of the townhouse we live in are inside. There is a golden glow seeping from their windows and I hear happy laughter inside. I wonder if they heard my dad yelling. I wonder if they even care.

The grass is cold on my feet, the dark green blades tickling the pale skin on the sole of my foot, a long strand curling over my toes. The chilly rain falls on my hair, gathering in the dark strands like dewdrops on a spider web and I stand in silence as they make their way through the tangled paths of my raven hair onto my scalp, a few escaping down my forehead or neck.

I watch the swirling colors painted across the sky, over a portrait of silhouetted pine trees—the kind that stands tall and proud, quivering in the wind and spraying it's soft pointy needles through the air with their sweet, Christmassy scent. The sky is turning a thick, smothering indigo, blending with the final rays of deep red and gentle orange that outline the horizon. Stars are beginning to appear like freckles in the purple, wispy clouds picking up the brilliant hues of the sunset. The earth itself is better than any artist you'll find in a museum. My breath is forming clouds, each puff of air clinging onto each other for a second before disappearing into the painting.

The door creaks open as Lyon sticks his head out. "Mom says to come in before you get pneumonia."

"Okay."

The leaves get stirred up as the wind picks them up in its cool grasp, a few damp, browning leaves sticking to my feet and then the kitchen tile.

Ultear is on the phone, chatting away with her friend by the kitchen counter, rolling her eyes in annoyance as Lyon and I clomp loudly upstairs to our bedroom. I close the door behind us, the dark wood dusty and creaky with age.

I walk to my bottom bunk bed, the floor groaning beneath my steps with a raspy shudder. Lyon and I like keeping the window open almost year-round and the wind is circling around the room, shifting papers and picking up the corners of blankets. I watch rainwater gather in small pools on the floor and stare at the orange maple leaf fly into the screen, sticking and flapping in the breeze before it flies off. Lyon blocks off my vision as he goes to close the window, sighing as he sees the rainwater soaking our windowsill.

He climbs up onto his bed, the mattress sagging above me. I can see the corner of one of his porno magazines peeking out from under the bed spread. The bleach blonde hair is all I can see, styled tall and big like Amy Winehouse's.

Lyon leans over the bed and tells me to climb up with him. I sit cross-legged on his blue comforter and watch as he pulled the magazines from between the mattress and headboard and stuffed in his sheets. The blonde lady's face now gazes up at me as she leans on a motorcycle I doubt is hers.

"Thanks for getting me out of homework kid."

He flips open his new magazine and we begin to count how many times the words breast and penis (and other variations of said words) appear.

If dad walked in, we'd be dead, but he's likely to not be back for another few minutes, so for now we're safe to watch girls' cleavage as Lyon tells me more things I'm not sure I want to "understand when I'm older."

These moments are more for brotherhood for me. For Lyon I think it's just a way to get me not to tell. I don't care either way. If magazines are one of the ways that I keep my only friend, I'll take it. Ultear isn't really a friend. She's exactly as all older sisters are to their brothers—a person who you're friends with one minute at a time.

The house rattles as our dad makes his reappearance and Lyon and I freeze until we're sure he isn't heading upstairs before I leap from the bed and Lyon smothers the women under his bed again. Dad's likely to ignore us for the rest of the night, but we know you can never be too careful.

Lyon hops off his bed and heads for the stereo, placing our mix CD I made him for Christmas in the CD cartridge, the sweets melody of Eleanor Rigby drifting towards me. The voices of McCartney, Lennon, Starr and Harrison calming me with their antique lullaby. I wonder if someone else is listening to the same song right now—if they are sharing it with their best friend too.

The drizzling rain adds a deep, gritty feel to the music, furthering the comforting sounds in my bedroom. The rhythmic thumping of Lyon's baseball against his mitt as he tosses it in the air and catches and the strumming latching onto the bedroom walls with its echoing pulse is the lullaby that sends me to sleep each and every night.

Strum, thump, strum.

 **A/N This chapter is kind of short, I know, but I feel it's really perfect just the way it is.**

 **The next one will be longer, promise :)**

 **Have a wonderful day/night.**

 **-c.v.**


	4. Part 1: Fullbuster

**CAGED**

 **10 YEARS OLD (2007)**

 **Part 1: _Fullbuster_**

The day I start out my new school, there's not a speck of rain—its far dryer here than Canada's rainy climate. The air is crisp and cool, leaves crunching under our feet as we press their corpses to the pavement. Ultear's hair flows behind her in a dark cloud and Lyon's spiky hair has three clumps droop downwards after the wind knocked them awry.

My own black hair is obstructing my vision but I don't try to move them—there's no point to it, really. Unless the wind stops the ebony strands will just return to where they lay now.

I watch as Lyon and Ultear change paths, the high school and middle school looming in the distance. My own school takes another five minutes to get to. I continue walked and at the gate, I pause.

"Hi!" A chipper voice grabs my attention and I turn to see a boy with spiky pink hair and a white scarf behind me, a toothy grin adorning his face. "I'm Natsu." No one catholic school was ever this nice to me and all I can do for a moment is blink in surprise.

"I'm Gray." Natsu is about an inch shorter than me. I then realize I have no clue where the hell I'm going. "Do you know where the office is?"

He grins, grabbing my wrist—the bruise is fading but the pain is still there—as he runs into the building, promptly abandoning me in front of the double doors. My blue gaze follows his form as it runs down light blue hall, backpack swinging wildly behind him. Bastard.

The office is way different here. The walls are baby blue, one holding a mural of a forest, a friendly deer, bear and other animals painted on. A woman with brown hair and green eyes smiles as I shuffle over.

"You must be our new student, Grayson." I nod, gaze flittering to the ground as I twist my sleeves around. She chats to me before typing on her computer then leaving me to my class, knee-length purple skirt swishing around her legs. My vision is parallel with the small of her back, the white polka-dots adorning her black blouse spotting my line of seeing.

My new class is the same blue color, painting and drawings dancing above my head, strung up on a clothes line. The teacher has red hair, her face speckled in freckles. Natsu waves wildly from a spot by her desk.

The students all introduce themselves one by one, some more enthusiastic than others. There's Natsu, Cana, Lisanna, Gajeel, Levy, Hannah, Percy, Mila, Jeremy, Sting, Rogue, Sara, Rin, Sam, Mike, Jet, Droy, Casey and Mary.

"Why don't you tell the class your name, sweetie?" My teacher requests.

"I'm Gray Fullbuster-Milkovich."

"Why do you have two last names?" Lisanna asks.

"I'm adopted…" Everyone sits in silence before Ms. Smith claps her hand together.

"Anyone have another question for Gray?"

"Just one," Gajeel says as he raises his hand lazily, lounged back in his seat. "Why didn't your parents want you?"

I stand awkwardly, fiddling with the fabric of my jeans as I stare at him with wide eyes.

"Buzz off, Gajeel," Natsu says finally, eyes flashing with anger. "Don't be a prick."

"Gajeel, don't be rude, and Natsu don't use that language," Ms. Smith snaps. "Gray, take a seat by the class savior."

She gives me a blank name tag and blue marker, which I hold in my hand, tip of the pen hovering over the page. Gray Fullbuster-Milkovich will _never_ fit. I share my concerns with Natsu and Lisanna and they tell me, "Just pick one."

"Pick one?"

"Yea, you have two last names and you only _need_ one."

Dad would be livid if I write Fullbuster, but writing Milkovich would be letting him win. Lyon can flick off our dad and curse his brains out, but I can't, and as long as I remain myself I'll never be able to. As simple as it is, my heart pounds as I write out _Gray Fullbuster_.

I smile, the ink didn't even smear from my hand dragging across it. I think I'll take this as a good omen.

Gray Fullbuster. It sounds way better without the extra family-marker. My name has never felt more natural.

 ** _chemical violets_**

I sit with Natsu, Lisanna, Cana and Levy at lunch, Fullbuster bouncing around the caverns of my mind, along with Gajeel's smug voice. _Why didn't your parents want you?_ I had never thought of it like that before. That was always just the way it was. Gray Milkovich-Fullbuster, the black-haired boy with parents who aren't quite his parents.

"Hey, Gray." I look up into Natsu's dark eyes as he continues. "Don't listen to Gajeel, okay? He's a jackass." I smile at him, which he returns 2x as wide.

"Where are you from, Gray?" Cana asks.

"Isvan. It's in Canada."

"You're from a different country!? Cool!" Natsu exclaims.

Finally, it seems, I have friends. Not just Lyon when no one but his close friends are around. I have Natsu with the pink hair and black eyes. Cana with the brown hair and purple eyes. Lisanna with her white hair and warm blue eyes. Possibly even Levy and her two male friends, Jet and Droy.

It's a small group, but finally my only friend isn't my brother. I hope I'm not reading too far into it—after all, I once had friends in catholic school. But people change. People leave. People are unreliable.

 ** _chemical violets_**

There is a large empty field before you reach the fence stopping kids from running off into the forest. The playground is on raised ground, mulch in varying shades of brown covering the L shaped ground. The playground is far different from the one at Holy Family—if it could even be called that. We played in the parking lot, each grade getting three jump-ropes to play with that the older kids would always steal and hide. Every time a car would drive through to get to the church the teachers would scream _Car!_ and we'd have to stand on the sides of the lot, waiting as the vehicle passed at 2 miles per hour **(A/N this is legitimately how recess was at my catholic school)** The play structures have rusty corners and the swings creak as a group of girls kick their legs to stay in motion.

Natsu drags me off to the monkey bars, laughing as he swings quickly across the red structure, hands squeaking against the metal. The paint flakes off as he moves, red flurries floating down like red snow, an entire rectangle of paint fluttering past my vision.

I slowly curl my fingers around the metal as Natsu waits for me on the other side, slowly and shakily moving across the metal. My grasp slips and I crash to the mulch. I shake off the pain in my ankle, staring at the red dots littering my friction-burnt hands. Natsu is suddenly next to me, wiping the flakes off my palm with his calloused hand.

"Haven't you ever been on monkey bars?"

"No." Frost always made the bars too slippery to play on. He looks shocked for a minute before grinning.

"That's okay. You can only get better."

 **A/N I know I said this chapter would be longer but it wasn't and I apologize. But the next one will be because it'll be the last one from 10 year old Gray's POV and it's a pretty important chapter.**


	5. Part 1: 8 o'clock

**_A/N OKAY I LIED I HAVE REALIZED THAT I ACTUALLY HAVE THREE MORE CHAPTERS FROM 10 YEAR OLD GRAY'S POV SO WHOOPS._**

 **CAGED**

 **10 YEARS OLD (2007)**

 **Part 1: _8 o'clock_**

I tug on the collar of my polo shirt, fiddling with the necklace chain hanging off my neck. The silver cross gets caught on the shirt buttons, staying on my chest before I pull it away and it swings down to its natural position, jingling merrily.

"Will you quit fidgeting?"

I look up, making eye contact with my dad in the rearview mirror, nodding and sitting still besides the tapping of my finger. My mom is at Lyon and Ultear's school, planning to meet with us for my own parent teacher night.

I clamber from the car as dad stops in the parking lot, the late November frost crunching under my sneakers. I turn when I hear Natsu calling my name and my gaze catches his form just in time to see him running across the parking lot, slipping on the ice, his dad laughing as he followed close behind, holding him by the scarf so he didn't fall.

He skids to a stop beside me, immediately launching into a play-by-play of the Thanksgiving Day game, knowing I wouldn't be watched. I listen to our fathers exchange names as they shake hands.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Igneel Dragneel."

"Jacob Milkovich, the pleasure is mine."

My dad holds back a sheer at my school's interior. It's bright and happy as elementary school should be, unlike Holy Family. He rolls his eyes when he makes eye contact with a drawing with my name on it. _Gray F-M_

I stand by the cupboards with Natsu as my dad talks to the teacher. He asks how I'm doing in classes. Ms. Smith replies I excel in writing and struggle with math. This is my dad's nightmare. The banker with the son who can barely multiply.

"He's also quite the doodler," she adds with a laugh. My dad blinks at her. "It's quite alright though, he gets the work done regardless. The art teacher tells me he has real potential."

My dad gives a strained smile, moving on to look at our "All About Me" sheets tacked on the wall. I remember mine fully.

 **FULL NAME?** _Grayson Lee Fullbuster-Milkovich_

 **NICKNAMES?** _Gray_

 **AGE?** _10_

 **BIRTHDAY?** _December 24_ _th_ _, 1997_

 **FAVORITE COLOR?** _Blue_

 **FAVORITE BAND?** _The Beatles_

 **FAVORITE SONG?** _Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles_

 **SIBLINGS?** _Ultear (15), Lyon (13)_

 **FAVORITE MOVIE?** _The Village (aforementioned brother showed it to me)_

 **DREAM JOB?** _Artist_

Mom walks in now, Ultear close behind, texting, and Lyon walking towards me with a lazy gait. My dad strides over as Ms. Smith introduces herself to Mom, who replies with, "Hi, I'm Ur Milkovich."

"Gray, where's your desk? I want to look at your workbooks."

I lead him to the desk. Earlier in the day I had placed my books in a pile like my peers but moved over my name tag.

He flips through my math books, the accountant shaking his head at my failed attempts to multiply numbers. When he lifts the final book—my reading book—then name tag becomes visible.

He stops.

He freezes.

He turns.

"Gray, what is this?"

"My name tag…"

"And where is my name on this?"

"Nowhere…" I mumble.

Mom joins us, dark hair framing her face. "What's going on?"

"Gray decided he was too good for our name. Is that it, Gray?" Dad's voice is a whisper, trying not draw attention. "Do you hate our family? Do you hate _me_?"

I feel my limbs stiffen, eyes widening as my muscles get tighter and my finger twitches in fear with jerky shakes. The classroom feels too suffocating, the voices seem too loud and Natsu's gaze in my back feels too hot. The polo is digging into my skin and now I'm painfully aware of the staggering lack of oxygen I've been getting tonight. "What?"

"Jacob, don't do this. Not here." Mom lays a hand on my shoulder and Lyon and Ultear glance at each other, standing so close their shoulders are nearly touching. These seem to be some of the only times when they're not at each other's throats.

My father shakes his head, bright blonde hair quivering with the movement. His coworkers and friends think he's an easy-going, happy, caring man. I wonder just how far off they are. Maybe some of them have caught on. I doubt it. Adults seems to have an astounding amount of ignorance and _selective hearing and seeing_ as my dad often says Lyon has.

"I'm taking Lyon and Ultear home," he says. "You can stay here, Ur, with _him_." He spits out _him_ like the word is toxic—like the very thought of me is enough to burn a hole through his tongue and mind with its radioactive poisons. If he keeps the word _gray_ in _any_ context dancing in the back of his throat too long, it's painful to him—or so it seems. It's been clear since a young age that I was his least favorite. Ultear smoked both Lyon and I completely. Lyon, however, is only ahead of me on the spectrum because he's good at something my dad actually can acknowledge and appreciate—sports.

The next few moments of shuffling and exiting tick by painfully slow and I watch the hands of the clock move as the thin red line measuring seconds clicks by. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. It's 7:32 as the door shuts. Has it always been _that_ loud? Natsu is beside me, black eyes watching the door as though he's expecting my dad to come in and slap me.

"Gray?"

"Yea?"

"Your dad scares me."

"Yea… Me too…"

My mother sighs as she sits down at my desk, legs crossed as she flips through my books, lounged back in my chair and even balancing slightly on the back legs of the chair. She narrows her gentle dark eyes as she tries to read the jumble of numbers of symbols on the page, dyed dark gray from the remains of failed attempts at solving the problems. My eraser tore a hole on the left-hand side of the page.

"Mom?"

"Yea, Gray?"

"Milkovich wouldn't fit."

"I know, sweetie."

She heads over to Mr. Dragneel and talks to him for a few minutes, discussing times Natsu and I can get together after school. Natsu watches me carefully as I stare at the ground.

"Ready to go, Natsu?" The pinkette smiles at me as he follows his father, grinning up at the ginger haired man as I hear him promise his son soup. Natsu is weird. Mom lays a hand on my shoulder as we follow them a few car lengths behind.

The car roars to life as she turns the key in the ignition, heating system exploding into action as mom puts the car in reverse. The windshield wipers scrape frost off the glass with a crunch, grinding as it squealed across the frozen plain. The air is so cold tonight that even within the car my breath forms a cloud, curling around my face in hazy ribbons.

The streetlights pass overhead, the speedometer set on about 30 MPH. The lights cast an orangey-gold glow against the night sky. The light is completely fake and unnatural, blinding and obvious like the most horrendous of spray tans.

I unbutton the top button of my dark blue polo, relieved as I take my first full breath of air since I put the thing on. "Is Dad going to hate me?"

"Of course not. You know him. He's just going to need time to cool off."

"I _could've_ fit it—if I tried. I didn't want to…" I broke the golden rule of my household.

 ** _Milkovich Family Rules #1_**

 ** _The Milkovich family is your family in all ways but blood (for Lyon and Gray). You will not question your parents as though they were someone else's. You will respect the people who clothe you and feed you. It was their choice to take you in and you must show gratitude._**

 ** _Do not question the family name. Do not question your father's authority._**

 _{What about Mom's authority?}_

 _{That too.}_

 _{Then why isn't it listed?}_

 _{It should go without saying.}_

 _{Why does your authority not go without saying?}_

 _{It does.}_

 _{Then why did you say it?}_

 _{Gray, leave it.}_

 _{Sorry.}_

 ** _Be proud of those you call family. Wear the name Milkovich with pride and honor or else don't hold onto it at all._**

 _{I thought dropping the name wasn't allowed until we're legal adults…?}_

 _{It's not.}_

 _{Then what was the significance of the last sentence? Why tell us to drop it if you won't let us actually go about the action of removing the name?}_

 _{Gray, it's called an empty threat, get it?}_

 _{Got it.}_

 _{Good.}_

My mother turns, taking her eyes off the road for a split second as she ruffles my hair, a smile on her face and eyes filled with compassion and understanding. "That was very brave of you and I don't blame you at all."

Returning to her original position, her pretty, easy smile loses its shape.

Seven seconds. Seven seconds of distraction is all it takes for the world to end. The headlights of a swerving car blind me, my mom turns the wheel fast, car wheels squealing with the harsh force being exerted as the brake pedal gets pushed into the ground quickly. It's too late. The picture moves in slow motion as the other car collides with my mom's side of the vehicle.

The car is rolling. The windows have shattered and glass is spraying like enlarged crystalline snowflakes flying through the air. There's blood dripping into my eyes. I feel the searing pain of glass slicing into my forehead, imbedding itself in my abdomen. My vision is red—whether that's a form of blackout from the crushing hurt or simply blood in front of my pupil I don't know.

The rolling finally stops on my side and my face collides with something cold. The window? No, that's _in_ my face, not _on_ it. The pavement. Tiny rocks are pressed into my cheek, along with little pricks of ice that feel like small blades poking into the scrapes on my alabaster skin.

Red pools around me, gathering on the cross pendant with its slick crimson touch. Black hairs obstruct bits of my vision. The radio's sound is distorted, the voice of some talk show host grinding with a horrifying mix of shrieks, static and broken speech, like something out of a horror movie.

My eyes are sealing shut. The seatbelt is digging into my neck. There's metal everywhere.

The last thing my eyes land on before the vision is too blurry to be useful and the black takes over is the cracked digital clock of the radio. The last two numbers are snubbed out, one flickering and lighting up the spider web crack in the plastic-like glass with an electric blue, getting caught in the edges of the destroyed clock, the lines of the broken car brighter than the rest of it. Like a radioactive web spun by a poison spider.

The fully functioning digit is the hour marker. I look at it just as the seven changes to an eight… 8 o'clock.

 **A/N Eyyyyy how'd you like the chapter? I would like to get at least 3-5 reviews for an update but I'm a softie so who knows. I'd still appreciate it, though.**

 **Also, I started to check it for grammar and got bored so…. Hopefully I didn't fuck it up too bad.**

 **-c.v.**


	6. Part 1: Narrow

Quick note for you guys: I never exactly did specify that Lyon and Gray share a room in the Magnolia house too did I? Well they do… So…

 **IMPORTANT:** I made a mathematical error in what grade Gray is in. He's actually in _fifth_ grade. In the chapter _The Rosary_ I accidently wrote fourth. I fixed it in there as well but also felt it was necessary to point out.

 **CAGED**

 **10 YEARS OLD (2007)**

 **Part 1: _Narrow_**

I open my eyes slowly, blinking rapidly to adjust to the brazen light. It's too intense, I've decided, closing them again with a whimper as I wait for the burning to fade. There's a similar burn on various parts of my skin: my forehead, my abdomen, my cheek. It's intense, blinding and numbing all at the same time.

A door squeaks open and I whip my head around, eyes peeling open as a man comes into view. There's blonde hair and a blurry, peachy colored face. _Dad_ …

"Hey, Gray, you okay?" He asks. Dad only shows such tender care when I'm _really_ hurting or when something is _really_ wrong. The only times I've seen him do this is the time I broke my wrist falling out of a tree and when his own dad died. Jesus Christ, did someone die? I wish he'd stop beating around the bush and tell me if someone is dead. Funny how he's finally letting his caring side come out and I don't even care anymore.

"I-Is Mom…" His eyes answer my question. Dad cared for Mom deep down, even if he didn't show it. Mom is gone. I distracted her and now she's gone. The light is bright against my eyes, the hospital ceiling has swirls in the white paint from circular strokes.

"It'll be okay, Gray. Eventually." The door squeaks open and Lyon follows Ultear in. Her gaze is sweet and calming, reminiscent of how my adoptive mother's used to be. Lyon looks sad, but his eyes hold a mask of anger.

Does he blame me? Please don't blame me. I already blame myself. Don't hate me like I know you will.

I close my eyes, unable to hold eye contact any longer. They probably hate my guts. Dad lost his wife. Ultear lost her mom. Lyon lost his mom. I hate that I do this. It's almost like the world wanted Ultear to catch up to Lyon and I in the mother-less department. Clearly I'm a pretty horrible person if my original parents had even given me up. Maybe if they had just left me… if they had abandoned me somewhere and left me for dead this wouldn't have happened. Lyon and Ultear would still have a mom. There would still be a Jacob and Ur Milkovich instead of just a Jacob. Even if I had been found before I died, it could've been too late to be adopted by the pair I was. They could have a perfect, blonde haired brown eyed son. They could've had one who was the exact opposite of me. They lost their prized family member to a dark cloud of death with blue eyes and a lust for feeble, pointless acts of rebellion, led by selfishness, narrow mind-sets and greed.

"Dad, his bandages are leaking," Ultear whispers. As if on cue, a teardrop of blood slips down my face. Dad scuffles into action.

"Oh, shit." Dad hits the nurse call button. I hear its loud click as he slams it down with urgency. I twitch a finger from within the binds of my itchy cast, as a small sign to tell him I'm fine and that the button is getting really annoying. He pulls a tissue from its perch, the swish almost comforting as he gently wipes at the crimson trail. I open my eyes slightly. By the look on his face I know there's a stain of red down my skin.

The nurse whisks in quickly, checking her clipboard to see my name. She smiles sweetly as she readies disinfectant, unraveling the bandage wrapped around my forehead.

"Alright, Grayson—"

"Gray," Dad interjects before lowering his voice. "He goes by Gray."

"Gray, this will only sting a bit." It stings a lot. She replaces the bandage before saying she'll bring the doctor over, telling my dad now that I'm awake they should really put stitches on the gash in my abdomen and probably my face too.

He scoots his chair closer after giving Ultear and Lyon some money to get food, leaning back with his ankle on his knee.

"So I'm going to cancel the Christmas party in a few weeks. It just wouldn't be right." I stay silent, listening to the door snap shut. "We'll give you some time to recover before we inevitably slip back into it. Your mom would want us to keep some normality. Mom and I had been considering going back up to Canada for Christmas, but I can't really afford that—with the hospital bills and all." Great. Another two things I've ruined for my family. "I'm sorry to say it'll be a fairly simple Christmas."

A simple Christmas. That's all I've ever wanted. I can't enjoy this though. It'll be the first Christmas without Mom. My first Christmas cake adorned with birthday candles (it's inevitable having a Christmas Eve birthday) not made by Ur Milkovich's hands.

"It's real lucky you broke your right arm, not you're left. At least now you can do schoolwork. Draw. Pass the time." I'm astonished. Dad's actually giving me leeway to do art. This hasn't ever happened before and I'm not sure how to take it.

The doctor comes in this time. I'm shocked to see its Natsu's own dad, Igneel. He and Dad try to talk quietly but I hear them.

"We're scared that the wounds will become infected. They haven't stopped bleeding since he came in three hours ago at 8:45. We're going to need to stitch them both up. The broken wrist, as I said should heal on its own."

"Will they scar with the stitches?"

"They're going to scar regardless. The only difference between him having stitches and not is a harmful infection or a few moments of pain to put stitches in. It's a narrow path that could decide Gray's fate." Let me fall off that narrow path. God knows if I had years ago you wouldn't be in this position…

He recounts the facts to me before gently ruffling my hair. "Better rest up and let that wrist heal once we're done. You wouldn't believe how excited Natsu was that he got to teach you how to complete the monkey bars." He then turns to dad, chuckling happily. "You should've heard him. 'Dad, can you _believe_ there's someone who hasn't done the monkey bars? I can be the playground teacher again!'"

Dad manages a smile.

"Will it hurt?" I ask weakly.

"Only a little. Just a pinch."

Some nurses come in with a wheelchair to bring me down to where the stitches will be done. He smiles at me encouragingly until the nurse pushing me rounds a corner and he disappears from sight. He slips out of my vision and my current life and I'm alone. Alone with people I don't know the discomfort that comes with simply being me.

Mr. Dragneel has me lay back in the room. I watch him sterilize needles before he comes back and smiles at me.

"You ready, Gray? It'll be just a pinch. Just a pinch..."

I close my eyes.

 **A/N** **Five reviews for an update?**

 **Here is a new chapter for you lovely beings. Next chapter and Gray is 12, nearly 13! Teenage, angsty, eighth grade Gray here we come :D!**

 **-c.v.**


	7. Part 2: Nothing at All

**Gray will be 13 until I write his birthday/holiday scene later in the story when he will then be 14.**

 **CAGED**

 **13/14 YEARS OLD (2010)**

 **Part 2: _Nothing at All_**

I pull the final box through my door frame, stopping to catch my breath. I am _not_ fit in any way, shape or form. I tell my Dad I'm staying after school for sports when in reality I am sat on the bleachers watching Natsu shoot hoops while drawing, occasionally tossing a basketball in the net myself with a horrible, lopsided aim. I'm surprised my father hasn't caught on honestly. Every other day I stay after for "track" and yet I haven't had a single meet and I still get winded when he forces me and Lyon on bike rides.

My old ten-year-old handwriting is still scrawled across the box, it's destination of _Lyon & Gray's Room_ marked on the cardboard. At least I think so, if my memory serves me correctly. The words are a mass of jumbled letters now, a few flipped over and sideways. It's a particularly rough day for my disability. As soon as I realized I suddenly had lost the ability to read I had ran to my dad who had brought me back to the hospital. "Trauma-induced dyslexia" Mr. Dragneel had concluded. Apparently when my head smacked the pavement at 7:59 two years ago the left hemisphere of my brain was damaged and therefore I developed dyslexia. Dyslexic and left-handed. Screw my own personal interests, I feel bad for the teachers who have to grade my work. Perhaps I actually get answers right but the illegible code of symbols is to blame for my solid Cs and Ds.

Maybe I should cross off the "Lyon &" bit. After all, I'm currently moving it to my new room in the attic. Lyon decided he wanted privacy and the only other available room in this house is the attic. I hear my dad sigh besides me, his voice drawing my attention to his crossed arms as he rolls his eyes at my position (I am curled up in a ball on the floor, cursing the gods for making the stairs to my attic so steep).

"C'mon, Gray. The guests will be arriving at 5:00. You only have an hour and a half to get this done." I wave him off weakly.

"Just… Just gimme a second. Please." He shakes his head as he moves from the doorway, blonde hair catching the sunlight in a flash before he begins his descent down the stairs. I pull myself off the ground, unrolling my large Canadian flag to hang in front of the window. There are no curtains because attics don't need privacy. Who lives in an attic? Me.

Dad hammered in nails for me to hang it from but he seemed to have forgotten he is 6'2 and I'm barely 5'7. That doesn't really work out. I am trying to jump up and snag one of the flag's metal holes on the nail when Lyon laughs behind me.

"Let me do it, kid." The flag has an almost eerie glow to it, with shadowed lines across the white and red felt. I mutter a thanks as I begin unpacking boxes, Lyon shuffling over to help and tossing my clothes onto the unfitted mattress. The hangers are twisted up in my shirts weirdly. I commence putting the clothes on the old clothes rack my dad got from the Magnolia Community Theater.

I begin hanging posters up to cover the holes revealing insulation. The attic is drafty, wind shaking the flag-curtain in front of the open window. Despite the breeze I'm still sweating. Maybe black jeans and a band tee in July weren't the smartest choice of apparel for me. Is it worth it wearing all black in 88 degree weather? The answer is yes. Always yes.

Fast forward and Lyon finally decides he's bored of helping me unpack. As he runs downstairs I can barely hear him shout over his pounding footsteps. "Take those fucking jeans off before you die of heat stroke you twat."

Asshole.

Natsu arrives before the rest of the guests. Despite the summer heat, his scarf is still coiled around his neck, a vest top adorning his torso. The summer heat that makes my hair look spikier and wavy doesn't do anything to his. Maybe he gels it to get it like that. My hairstyle is simply the result of not bothering to brush my hair in the morning and adamant refusal to cut my hair more than half an inch every month or two. It's kind of like a routine. Dad will tell me to cut my hair and I will simply respond with _I refuse_ and then walking away.

Natsu, like Lyon, tells me I'm an idiot for wearing jeans on the Fourth of July when my dad is holding an outdoor BBQ. He's a hypocrite with that scarf. The conversation when my dad planned the party went like this:

 _G: Why are we having a Fourth of July celebration?_

 _D: Because we're good hosts and people enjoy coming here._

 _G: But we're Canadian._

 _D: But we live in America now and it's a tradition._

 _G: If we're going to celebrate the Fourth than why do we still celebrate the Canadian Thanksgiving but not the American one?_

 _D: It's different._

 _G: But_ how _?_

 _D: Because no one will be affected if we don't invite them to eat a damn turkey with us. We're giving these people a place to go. Just imagine all these people with no plans on an important holiday._

 _G: Okay._

 _D: Do you want them to be alone on a holiday?_

 _G: But what if they're alone on Thanksgiving?_

 _D:_ Gray _._

 _G: No._

 _D: Good. Keep that attitude._

Natsu thinks my attic room is really cool. Natsu is pretty nice about these things and is easily impressed (not sure why—the kid lives in a fuckin' mansion), but as always he feels it's necessary to take a piss take at my collection of CDs and paint brushes.

He points to them dramatically, scarf wrapped around his head from an earlier attempt to convince me that he was a "real ninja."

"These, my friend," he announces proudly as though he is proclaiming the cure for cancer. "These are why you are an antisocial, friendless loser, Frosty."

"Ha ha ha. Very funny, Flame Brain."

My dad's new girlfriend, Charlotte calls up the stairs to us as she walks into the room.

"Guests are arriving, sweetie. Your dad wants you two down here." Charlotte is my favorite of all the girlfriends my dad has had since Mom died.

Once 2008 had rolled in Dad became a sort of serial romantic—dating women once or twice before he decided it "just isn't going to work out." He dated so many people simultaneously that he literally had to draw up a roster to hide behind the potted plant by our wall phone so Lyon, Ultear and I knew what to say to each person.

"Don't _ever_ tell M I'm with G, they can't stand each other. If L asks if I went with G you can say yes because L and M don't know each other so therefore she won't tell her." The list continued on and on in a wild, confusing fashion. A few months in on a particularly bad dyslexia night in a panicked haze I accidently told H, M's best friend that Dad was with G and totally ruined his whole dating system.

He nearly settled on a woman named Amelia who worked for the local newspaper and had a daughter until he found out she was Atheist. I've never seen him drop anything so fast.

Charlotte is nice. She has cinnamon brown hair and warm green eyes. She smiles as she moves over to my CD pile, straightening the tower before a few slip off the mountain. Dad met her when I was twelve, about a month before my birthday when she came into his bank. She had just moved from Nevada and has her own daughter named Meredy who's five. In fact, the first time I met Charlotte and Meredy was when they stayed over at my house over holiday break. I turned thirteen that year and despite the fact she had only known me for a matter of weeks she actually gave me two presents on Christmas Eve _and_ one on Christmas. Technically two, as she combined forces with my dad to get me a video camera. Not sure what I'll use that for, but it could come in handy. For my birthday she got me two CDs that introduced me to two of my favorite bands, Taking Back Sunday and Black Veil Brides and for Christmas she got me a thing of watercolors. She had recruited Lyon's help in getting me something suitable.

If Charlotte had been my adoptive mom from the start, I wouldn't have had any problems with her but I find it hard to forget my snarky mother Ur. I miss her a lot. Charlotte understands. Dad tried to get me to call her Mom once but she told him I didn't have to call her anything I didn't want to. She then looked to me and smiled wryly.

"So I'm your third mother figure, huh? You must have a bad track record." I decided in that moment that Charlotte was my favorite of my dad's girlfriends for sure. Mom's death was still sensitive to me, but she was straightforward and almost harsh. It was exactly how my mother would've been. Charlotte is the most like Mom. I know comparing her to my old matriarch is no way to move on but I'm not as ready to as Dad is.

I'm not one for moving on because moving on makes it real.

Meredy's staying in Ultear's bedroom until she goes off to college this summer. Ultear doesn't mind having her there—she thinks Meredy is _far_ cuter than Lyon and I. Boy, does she love reminding us of that.

My dad motions for me upon my arrival outside. Natsu snickers beside me muttering a good luck before he bounds off to go loiter around the food table. He claims to have a high metabolism.

The small introduction platform is set up. I get so pissed off every time I have to suffer through my dad tell the audience about us day in and day out. We hold so many gatherings even though we've only lived in America for three years everybody knows our life story. Does he think they don't know that Ultear plans to go to Penn State and used to alter serve, that Lyon plays baseball and that I am interested in art? Does he _really_ think that they don't know that Lyon and I are adopted, Ur is dead and now I have scars and dyslexia as a result but am "alive which is all that matters?"

There are only slight variations to the way the life stories go. They're all still formed around the same structure with only some new details added in. Dad now refers to Ultear as his eldest daughter instead of his only daughter. I suppose this is good—it lets Lynn feel accepted and signals Dad is ready to stop shuffling around and to move on from Mom's death completely. The months before my father met Charlotte were harsh. They were dignified by meltdowns, throwing spatulas across the kitchen and all three of his children drifting further away as time passed; we would spend every second we were allowed spending the night at a friend's house, spending the day, or even just a few hours so to escape the torrent of anger and blame.

"My eldest daughter, 19-year-old Ultear Milkovich. She may be my only biological child, but don't think that warrants any favoritism." In a way, it's her gender that does. My dad is _not_ some disturbing, incestuous creep who lusts for his daughters, but I think he still has the mindset his own father gave him that women are more easily impressionable than men. It's not true. Ultear would rather be dead than give in to everything my dad says. She's everything my Mom was, hard-headed, stubborn and sarcastic. Lyon is probably the most pliable with his dreams of being a sports-caster or athlete. If Meredy will pick up the behaviors of any of her step-siblings I hope with all my being it's Ultear. Lyon is too power-hungry and controlling. I'm too brooding, weird and socially inept. Instead of telling people how I feel I let a canvas talk for me. I don't want her to be anything like us. I suppose I sound like a crazed older brother already.

"Ultear graduated high school last month and I could not be more proud. Her graduation photos are hung up in the hallway. She got into Penn State with multiple scholarships, too bad none of them were full ride." Laughter. "She's been an alter server since thirteen until she finally decided that maybe college applications were more important." More laughter. I roll my eyes and hope it evades my dad's gaze. Natsu is laughing behind a plate of cookies my dad made me decorate earlier.

"My athletic eldest son, 17-year-old Lyon Vastia-Milkovich. He's still plays baseball all these years later. Do I even have to ask anymore, Lyon? That's it give 'em a good swing. I am so proud of the man he's becoming—so ambitious and outgoing. It's no real surprise this looker has a girlfriend, eh?" Amused laughter once again. This really is getting old.

Lyon's girlfriend is a pretty young girl named Juvia Locksar, who is a year younger than him at 16. She's got blue hair, an extremely curvy body and speaks in the third person, which is weird. Dad loves her though so that's what matters. Charlotte thinks she's a very sweet girl, so she likes her too. Juvia thinks I'm adorable and whenever she and Lyon pass me on my way to my bedroom she'll smile and say, "Be careful, Lyon-sama, Gray-sama is so cute, Juvia may just leave you for him." It's weird that she addresses me with "sama." I'm younger than her.

"Finally not the last one to be introduced, huh, son?" he says to me as he smiles "fondly." "We have my third child, Gray Fullbuster-Milkovich. Third child and a thirteen-year-old. So many threes it hurts my head." It's only two threes. Quit being melodramatic, Jesus.

"He paints in his spare time. Maybe one of that reasons his brother wanted his own room was so he'd stop slipping on brushes and empty paint bottles, the messy little raven." I am not a bird. Please shut the hell up. "Still into guitar and piano. Those lessons weren't a total waste. I can already tell he's going to go far in life. Such an artistic kid, this one. I have no doubts he can make it in the art world. Just don't become a full out junkie in the process, Gray." Maybe I will. Just to spite you.

"We have the newest edition to my family. Meredy is such a sweet young girl. The kids all love her. Ultear is just happy to have a sister finally. Lyon is already extremely protective of him. I think that pink hair might just remind Gray of that best friend of his, Natsu." Natsu makes a sour face and his elder cousin, Erza (Ultear's best friend) smacks his head to tell him to behave. Serves him right, the sadistic bastard.

"She's beginning to take after Ultear, so self-confident and has an uncanny ability to be serious. Welcome to the family, sweetie" A loud _aww_ rises from my yard. It's a small yard and the family on the other side of the townhouse gave us permission to use their half of the lawn as well; after all, they're attending the party. We're packed in here like sardines. Fish and a bird. (What? My dad called me a raven.)

"I'd like you all to meet my girlfriend, some of you—but not many—for the first time, Charlotte. Losing my wife was one of the hardest things I've ever gone through, but my son is okay. He has his scars, physical, emotional and mental, but he's alive. Ur would want us all to move on, so that's what I need to do." I would also like to inform you that I have moved on too well and despite the fact that I play up my wife's death, I still have managed to move on in a matter of under three years and have left my original kids behind with their old mother. "I think it's time, we all let the change commence completely."

He begins kneeling down, reaching into his pocket as he lowers himself to the ground. I blink. He's proposing. Isn't the father supposed to make sure the children are okay with the development? He didn't ask me. He gave me no inkling that he was going to propose. Ultear doesn't look surprised, only Lyon and I do. She knew. Ultear knew and his adopted children didn't. How's that for favoritism?

My necklace is catching light, shining into the window, bouncing off the window and into my eyes. I hardly even process that.

"Char, will you marry me?" She says yes, of course. She cries and kisses him on the cheek while people cheer. I wonder if Charlotte knows what she's signing herself up for. Does she know that the man she has just agreed to promise herself to will shower her with love and praise one minute only to verbally tear her, her child and step-children down the next?

I try to sneak away as the ceremony ends.

"Gray, hang on." Why do I even bother anymore?

"The Stevensons and Eli Parker wanted to see how we did your attic room, so why don't you go take them off." He gestures to the three adults standing off to the side. They're simplistic, older people, clad in bright shorts and polo shirts, even Mrs. Stevenson. I don't think Eli really wants to see my room itself, the guy is a _super_ great artist and has been begging me to let him see some of the work my dad raves about during introductions.

They follow me upstairs and I feel their eyes boring into my back. They're most likely judging me. Eli Parker is cool, he doesn't care what I do, but the Stevensons are a different story. I've heard them whispering to their fellow senior citizens that I'm weird, wear too much black and they think it's disgraceful that I constantly have paint stuck in random places—around the rims of my nails, _under_ my nails, on my arms. I once greeted them with a smear of red paint under my nose by accident and freaked Mrs. Stevenson out _big time_.

They walk around my room briefly, staying silent as I quickly try to pick up some fallen pencils before someone slips. Eli looks down at my desk and I scramble quickly to try and cover up the unpainted sketch of Beelitz Heilstatten Military Hospital. I was working on it history class, for a summer project on Hitler and the Nazis. The teacher is pretty cool with projects and this one was drawing an important piece from the time and explaining it.

"That's really very good, Gray. At only thirteen?"

"O-Oh, thanks. It's not done. I think they're serving food out back soon so we should really go back to—"

"How much for it?"

"What?"

"How much for the piece? I'm sure once you've finish it it would look great on the wall with my other paintings." I've been to his house before and it's filled with _great_ paintings. Classic looking, masterful works of art of people who are too expensive for me to ever _dream_ of owning one of their paintings. They're also far too good for me to ever dream of being that good.

"It's not anywhere near done and I need it for a school project."

"So finish it, turn it in and then bring it back to me." Mrs. Stevenson looks over his shoulder and scoffs at the creepy abandoned hospital. She returns to her husband waiting in the doorway.

"You would think Jacob's raising would've put this kid on a better track. I guess whatever wonky genetics his birth parents gave and Ur's strong creative freedom drive were too strong. I like Charlotte much better."

I stare after her in anger, nearly running after her and yelling at her before Eli talks again.

"So how much?"

"Umm… 50 bucks?"

"I'll pay double that." He tosses the cash on my desk, flashing me a smile as he brushes past my dad coming up the stairs. Jesus Christ, who just carries around a hundred bucks cash with them? I think Eli may be mentally insane.

My dad walks forward. "What did Eli just pay you for?" The look in his eyes is angry, as though he fears the man just bought some great cocaine off of me. I scoop up the cash, counting it out before stuffing it in my savings jar. I was saving up for a new, expensive easel and thanks to him I can get that and have money left over.

"He just wants that sketch once I finish painting it. Calm down, it's not like I sold him marijuana."

"He bought your painting?"

"Yes, Dad. People buy paintings for pure interest, not just because they can like you, even your 'sophisticated' friends." I expect a rise out of him, a glare or scolding for my sarcastic tone, but he just blinks at me. Oh yes, I suppose the shock that I actually made money off my "dead-end" hobby is too strong.

Dad nods all of a sudden. "This is good. People could pay you for this. You could help pay for your college. Maybe just stop with the creepy shit and move onto something more presentable."

"Hey! Eli just bought some of that 'creepy shit.'"

"Eli is a bit off his rocker. I'll ask around the party, see if anyone would be interested in getting some work commissioned."

I don't want to do commissioned art. Not yet. I want to keep exercising my creative freedom before I resort myself to the lifestyle of some starving artist. I wouldn't _mind_ being a full-time, travelling artist, don't get me wrong, but I want to explore my abilities first. I'm only fucking thirteen.

The rest of the party is uneventful. People ask me how I feel about having a new step mom, I respond by saying Charlotte is lovely before excusing Natsu and myself. There's congratulations and cheers and when the official fireworks stop and the crowd dwindles down to a few stragglers chatting up my dad about his work, Charlotte about her engagement, Ultear about her college, and Lyon about baseball, I'm tired. I think the guests could read the pure discomfort and general bad attitude I naturally exude as they all ignore me.

I finally manage to slip upstairs to my bedroom, sitting and listening to the sounds of fireworks cracking in the distance, watching the occasional bright light dance across the otherwise still sky. I sit there until about midnight, when Dad, Charlotte and Meredy are 100% asleep. Ultear is probably downstairs texting her boyfriend Zeref or watching Gossip Girl. Probably both.

When I go into the bathroom, I lean on the counter, staring into the blue irises that my Dad claims drew him to me with a begging, pleading manner. There's water in the sink, clearly the drain is clogged with Ultear's long dark hair again. Despite Lyon and my pleas for her to not brush her hair over the sink, she still does it. I think she does it to spite us. There's a strand floating in the middle of the liquid, which is now streaked with milky white swirls from the toothpaste I just spit out into the pooling water.

I unplug the Christmas lights lining my walls before putting a CD on. It's the TBS album Charlotte got me last year. I've listened to it so many times even Natsu gets pissed at how frequently I play it. I lay awake. I'm waiting. Waiting for the final song donned _Nothing at All_ to grace my ears with its rhythmic acoustic tune. Thirteen songs in and finally, _finally_ I can let the words curl around me as I close my eyes and small slightly to myself. This is why I prefer midnight to noon. It's way calmer. I can think until I no longer have to when darkness welcomes me into its sweet grasp. Until, just like the song suggests, I can truly see, hear and feel nothing at all.

 _And you're waiting in dark for the music to soothe you asleep._

I think back to all the times Lyon and I would lay in our bedroom late at night listening to Eleanor Rigby on repeat. The voices of Starr, Ringo, McCartney and Lennon were our only lullabies—Mom never was one for singing, unlike Charlotte who sings to Meredy every night.

I remember how I used to sit there and wonder how many people had fallen asleep to the same melody before. How many had laid with their brother on a warm summer night, shifting pages from one bunk and baseball smacking glove from another? I would always shake my head at my own thoughts. Even if the possibility was likely, in the moment it seemed like just us—two brothers listening to their ageless berceuse in memories of when we roomed together. Mom once took a photo of us like that without us knowing. I wish I knew where it was.

Lots of people hate the technology of cameras and photos but I love it. I like the idea of pictures. I like the idea of a moment frozen in time forever. So real it's like you can almost go back and see it for real instead of letting your brain try to fill in frayed ends and fading memories with warped realities and perceptions.

You can see your mother graduate. You can see people you know with people you don't know in moments that you never knew existed. In a reality that once existed, and now doesn't.

On those nights with Lyon I used to love reading Peter Pan, both the chapter book and the smaller, kids' one. I think I'll always like the chapter book better, even if now I can hardly even read it. It's more relatable. It's not completely about magic and fantasy. It's simply about a kid who doesn't want to grow up and then gets mad when the people around him don't share the same views—when he inevitably gets left behind. Right now, I think I want the Disney fantasy more though. I don't want to be left behind, I want magic and lost boys and girls to be my reality. Is 13 too old? Have I lost my chance?

The music playing in my new bedroom sounds hollow—the songs I previously cherished empty and meaningless. I can hear the snap of Lyon's baseball against his mitt and part of me wants to go downstairs to the second floor and lay beneath him, play that same track over and over again. But I can't. He's moved on to baseball and friends and real women instead of printed ones. They've all moved on. I'm the only one completely stuck in the past.

I never empathized with the line of Eleanor Rigby "look at all the lonely people until now' until now—when the silver moonlight is streaming through the flag into my room, the letters of a Panic! At the Disco poster switching around and forming a jumbled mess. Now I'm just one of those lonely people—the thirteen year old boy with rubber bands on his braces as black as his hair, with the blue eyes that can barely read anymore and who's only siblings probably hate his very existence.

The drafty attic suddenly feels much colder, but I still get up and slide the window open, the unscreened window allowing a small leaf in my room. The song has long ago ended, and now my cradlesong is the sound of a CD spinning in the radio with an empty, deafening lack of noise. I close my eyes as I lay on my stomach under the sheets, watching the movements the summer zephyr causes the flag to flicker around with.


	8. Part 2: Lucy

**CAGED**

 **PART 2-13/14 YEARS OLD (2010-2011)**

 ** _Lucy_**

It's an unusually warm day the day I start eighth grade. Dad drops Lyon off at school as he has an unholy start time. Charlotte drops off Meredy at the elementary school at 8 AM. Because I have the latest start time I have to ride the bus.

I no longer cherish the bus for the things I once did. Now I simply enjoy being able to avoid my dad for a bit of extra time. I slam my head against the seat as another loud shout from the seats around me jars me from my reverie. I should've saved myself the head trauma as Natsu then enters the bus and thwacks me across the skull with a soccer ball.

Despite him being my best friend, I despise how loud he gets in the presence of others. When it's just us, we can have a legitimate conversation (when we're not bashing each other's brains in) and can actually be silent for quite some time. When Natsu is around his school friends he's loud, boisterous and loses the ability to speak in full, coherent sentences.

A wave of loud energy shakes the air and I rip my headphones off my head and spin around. "Can you guys maybe shut up?" Lisanna falls silent and apologizes, Natsu and Gajeel laugh, and Cana pats my shoulder as she switches seats to be beside me.

"Calm down, Icy. Unlike you some of us enjoy having fun," Gajeel jabs. I glare at him, blue and red clashing. The bastard pisses me off and the fact that Natsu follows him around like a lost puppy makes it worse. I don't think I'll ever let his comment about my birth parents slide completely but I'd rather not get suspended again—lord knows how badly my dad reacted with the whole rosary thing. Before I can let the scathing remark forming in my mind roll off my tongue, Gajeel goes as red as his eyes and I snicker as I realize that a short blunette named Levy sat down next to him.

Natsu teases him before I can and I turn around smugly. As much as he tries to impress Gajeel, Natsu still pushes his buttons for me—possibly more than he pushes mine. It's a good system.

I sigh as they begin screaming again, leaning my head against the glass. It cools the left side of my face, a calming and clammy breath against my skin. My headphones clink against the glass, making the position slightly uncomfortable but I refuse to move. Moving requires me to acknowledge the others around me as I find it awkward to have my eyes closed when sitting upright. Taking Back Sunday has failed me—they refuse to block out the noise.

Maybe I should ask my dad to drive me one day… Yea no. I'll stick with the bus.

The bus skids to a stop in front of the school, a puff of gas emitting into the air with a whoosh as the doors swing open. Shuffling painfully slow, I follow Cana off the bus. It's loud and irritable and I nearly shove over a pompous seventh grader as he brags about fucking some senior chick over the summer. Yea, sure.

A sixth grader being agonizingly loud nearly pisses himself at the sight of me. I think the loud threatening to choke him if he didn't shut up may have factored into that. Maybe this is why I only have three friends. I'll try not to over analyze it.

"You are _such_ an asshole," Cana chides, rolling her eyes. Levy soon diverts her attention, talking about a best friend of hers from elementary school moving to town. I suppose I'll be forced to meet her. She'll probably hate me. All of the people who share mutual friends with me do. I have a reputation for being an antisocial, generally unpleasant person. I don't mind it. People change. People leave. People are unreliable. I'd rather not go through unnecessary friendships that are bound to end in a matter of years. I'll save myself the annoyance and sadness. I have enough of that in my life as it is.

My first class is history and I hold that summer project painting in a garbage bag to protect it from weather and annoying twats who decide to free-throw half drunken cartons of chocolate milk instead of walking to the garbage can.

I walk into the bathroom, sitting in a stall to avoid going to class, listening to a guy tell his friends about all the weed he smoked over summer. His friends scoff, saying they did "hardcore coke _and_ weed."

"I've got the good shit, man," one says. "I was trippin' balls for _hours_."

"Dude I did it _all_ , molly, weed, coke, pot." I wonder if he realizes that some of those are just varying nicknames for the same drug. "Then Stace and I totally hooked up. As soon as she left I just sprayed some Febreze or some shit in the air, 'cause my mom was gonna come home and be like, 'I smell ass.'"

I swing the door open, shuffling to the door before I turn and say, "No one give a shit if you smoke weed, so please shut the hell up and quit talking about it constantly."

I have no need to worry about dealing with them in class—idiots like that barely have enough common sense to be in intensive courses, let alone the advanced stuff I'm in. I don't quite get why I'm in advanced classes when I can't read and slack off in my classes like I would in PE.

My history class is half full by the time I drag myself in, dropping my project in the corner with the others as I enter. My seat is in the middle of the classroom, one seat to the left. Papers fly around my head as I eavesdrop on more conversations about drugs and tits. The perk of being a silent, introverted weirdo is you can sit there listening to anyone and everyone and they all seem to forget you have working ears. People Watching has become an important part of my daily activities.

I sometimes like to try and make up scenarios for all the people—I turn them into something they're not the saddest part is there's a likelihood that even if my "hidden" backstories aren't spot on it's likely they exist.

Maybe the guy who's making sex noises in the back is adopted like me. Maybe the girl who cakes on too much makeup is abused and is hiding bruises.

I suppose I shouldn't be sad that these people have lives I don't know about. Only the few people who were in my fifth grade class or ones who go to my house parties know I'm adopted. The rest of them think I just got a weird combination of my adoptive parent's genes that made me physically outcasted. They have no clue I'm adopted or that Lyon is too. Some of them don't even know Ur is dead. Not that I mind. I'd rather not have people know I'm responsible for my mom's death.

Flipping through my new U.S. History textbook, I sigh. At least my classmates have learned some of this stuff in earlier years. I've lived here for three years yes, but that's still not a lot of comfort. We didn't learn U.S. history in Isvan. We learned Canadian history—you know, all _ten_ pages of it. It's at least an okay dyslexia day—school has a major anxiety factor when you can read about as well as a first grader. Thank God I took the citizenship test _before_ the accident.

"You're Gray, right?" A voice pulls my attention away to the blonde girl standing beside my desk.

"Yea?"

"Oh, then this is my seat." I turn away then, staying silent as the girl unpacks her book, piling them up pristinely in the corner of her small desk. She has undeniably perfect posture, much unlike my slouchy position. She exudes prim and proper. I think she may be rich. Or at least not as mediocre as my family. It makes me wonder why she's at our old public school. She looks like the cover girl from some private school girls club.

"I'm Lucy," she says suddenly, blonde hair slipping down her forehead as she leaned half turned in her seat, propping up her chin with the palm of her hand.

"Gray. But it seems you already know that." She laughs. It's a merry sound, carefree and light and once again totally unlike any sound of amusement I've _ever_ released.

"You're funny, you know?" I blink. No one has ever thought of anything besides sarcastic and weird besides Juvia. All the girls go for people like Lyon. He and his bedroom I guess are just generally attractive to females.

He spikes his hair, has dark eyes that I've seen many girls melt for. His bedroom is the essence of all things cool. It's where he tosses a baseball, hangs out with friends, talks on the phone, breezes through homework and kisses his girlfriend into a pulp. It's filled with albums from a collection of bands like Paramore, Linkin Park, Breaking Benjamin, Train, The Black-Eyed Peas and some rap artist that was starting out, a Jewish-Canadian rapper named Drake who originated from the show Degrassi. He's abandoned the Beatles mostly

My hair gets wavy in the heat and sticks up in too many directions. My eyes are blue and the only thing they can do is make people shiver. My bedroom is the essence of dorkiness. It's where I paint, play piano, struggle through homework, listen to music and avoid the world like my life depends on it. I pride myself on having a larger music selection, but it doesn't do much when the bands aren't popular. It includes My Chemical Romance, Panic! At the Disco, Taking Back Sunday, Black Veil Brides, Pierce the Veil, The Beatles and the Smiths.

"I'm Levy's friend. She said that you have the same eighth period as me and that I should ask you to show me to the buses afterwards. We ride on the same one." Of course. She's talking me up for a favor, not for interest.

"Okay. I'll walk you there."

And I do. I wait for Lucy to finish at her locker. I stand off to the side, refusing to lean against the wall or stand to close. I refuse to acknowledge her as anything more than a girl needing a tour guide.

Lucy sits next to me on the bus. Cana says she hardly ever sits there anyways. I immediately pull my headphones on. She doesn't say anything to me and I don't say anything to her. I simply watch the trees go by as we pull out of the school lot.

I think I like having the other side of the seat occupied.

 **-c.v.**


	9. Part 2: Not-So-Happy Holidays

**I KNOW I DON'T DO DISCLAIMERS ENOUGH SO HERE IS THE UNIVERSAL DISCLAIMER THAT I OWN** ** _NONE_** **OF THE CHARACTERS I WRITE ABOUT NOR THEIR FANDOMS BESIDES MY OCs**

 **CAGED**

 **13/14 YEARS OLD (2010/11)**

 ** _Not-So-Happy Holidays_**

Three years after my first simple Christmas and Dad's abandoned all fleeting thoughts of a modest holiday. I get out of school a week before Christmas and a day before our Christmas party. The snow crunches under my boots as I shuffle home from the bus stop. My breath pours over my lips in a hazy white color, like smoke tumbling from the lungs of a chronic, year-long chain smoker.

I use headphones as some kind of ear muffs in the winter. The plastic/metal contraption does little to quell the cold—if anything, it accelerates it. Pearl Jam floods my senses, creating a hazy gap between me and reality. I keep my vision focused on the air I release, toying with the different kinds of breaths I can make. Sometimes I let out a slow stream of air through pursed lips, giving time for the air to form and disappear before the rest follows it. Other times I give short choppy breaths, creating a kind of mackerel sky with my lungs. Most of the time however, I just breath normally out of nose, letting out fine, wispy clouds with ribboning curls within it.

"Hello, Gray!" I barely hear the voice of my neighbor call me. I smile and wave back, pulling off my headphones. Sorry Mr. Vedder, I'll have to finish listening to your story later.

Mrs. Carson smiles at me, she's leaning against her doorframe with her mail in hand. She's a pretty woman in her late 20s with a husband who serves in the army. She replaced my old art teacher in the elementary school building. She motions towards my house with a good-natured grin, her brown hair shaking off her shoulder as she does. "They're doing some real work down there, huh?"

I look over and sure enough Dad has Lyon cramped onto our small silver ladder with him, both of them teetering on the edges as they try to hang Christmas lights. "I hope they don't fall."

"There's snow at this time of year for a reason, Mrs. Carson." She laughs.

"True. I suppose you don't want to help out do you?"

"Not at all."

"Well, I'd say I hope you don't fall but we all know that's wishful thinking. I'd be setting myself up for disappointment." I hold up my middle finger to her and she repeats the action, her shoulders bouncing in laughter as she retreats into her home with a bye rolling off her lips. She's the only adult neighbor of mine I can stand. Her husband is nice too, but he's gone so much I sometimes just count him out.

Once her door shuts I brace myself for the storm of Holiday madness I'm about to walk into. The house is covered in lights, a wreath Charlotte made hanging off the door.

"Gray! You're here! Great! Go inside, shake the snow off yourself and go help the girls with the cookies in the kitchen." To the blind eye it may seem like my dad was just questioning my masculine ability that allows me to hang lights. He was. But since I'm the family artist ("junkie", to my dad) he expected me to frost any cookies, ice any cupcakes and arrange any vegetable platters in a way guests will find "aesthetically pleasing."

The house is warm inside and the smell of chocolate and batter floats in the air. Charlotte has the TV in the living room blasting Christmas music so it can be heard from the kitchen. Some weird song called "The Funky Little Drummer Boy" is on. I see the Christmas song market has lost all creativity and freshness.

I pull my soggy jeans off and leave them on the floor, walking to the kitchen with only a t-shirt and boxers on. Dad hates that I do this, but Mom and Lyon always did too so I picked up the habit. He didn't just hate my doing it, he hated all of us doing it. Why the hell not, though? Boxers are pretty much shorts.

Juvia is in the kitchen too when I enter. I should've guessed. Wherever Lyon goes she goes. She greets me with a hug as I enter, her chest squeezing into mine. I'm sure my face is hot and red. Thanks a fucking lot, Juvia. Now while I'm decorating cookies with a five-year-old that'll be my only thought. You should be ashamed of yourself, missy, drawing the attention of your boyfriend's puberty-ridden younger brother.

I scoop up a chocolate chip cookie and stamp a foot on the ground to display my agony when it burns my mouth. Meredy giggles as Charlotte shakes her head.

"That's what you get, kid."

"Those are for the party, meanie!" Meredy giggles as she leaps into my arms. She likes Ultear better than me, but at least she likes me more than Lyon. She tells me it's because I decorate the cookies with her, will draw her cartoon characters and have "pretty shiny stuff" in my mouth. Just you wait, Meredy, when you get braces you won't think it's pretty anymore.

"Gray-sama, do you need any water for the burn? Juvia is sorry she didn't warn you they were hot." I raise my hand to appease her and she goes back to pouring peppermint extract into the white chocolate they're using for peppermint bark. The chocolate chip cookies don't need frosting, but there's at least 70 sugar cookies calling to be decorated. Lord, help me. I get that Christmas is your son's birthday or whatever, but I'm stuck in a red and green Hell.

 **(haven't figured out those line breaks yet...)**

People in Magnolia are scary punctual. They either come too early or on time to the second. We should have an hour before anyone arrives but the O'Hara's always arrive 20 minutes early like clockwork, the Stevenson's five minutes after.

I'm staring off into space when Dad is suddenly clapping in front of my face. "Gray, focus, you have lights to plug in, cookie trays to arrange. Work!"

"What do you want me to do first?"

"The cookies."

I stand on my tip-toes and pull multiple platters from the cabinet. The cookies are waiting in a tin off to the side. I begin putting them onto the trays, glancing constantly at my dad's flash card of how to arrange them. Considering we don't have a "yreem" or "strigeb" platter, I choose to believe that it says green and striped. Chocolate chip on the green one. Frosted sugar cookies on the big, crystalline red one. The vegan cookies for Janice Green and Irwin Bailey on the small striped platter.

Dad is breathing over my shoulder as I begin to settle the cookies into their places.

"No! Gray, we've been over this. The white chocolate cookies go on the snowflake platter and the peppermint bark goes on the Santa one."

"Sorry I forgot."

"Forget it. Where's your brother?"

"Probably upstairs with Juvia."

"Go get him and plug the tree in."

"I thought I had to do the cookies."

" _I'll_ do it. Just _go_."

I raise my hands in defeat, bounding upstairs and slamming a fist into Lyon's door. I hear the bed creak as he and Juvia separate.

"Dad wants us to plug in lights."

"Can't you do it, kid?"

"No."

The door swings open and Lyon walks out, shoving me by the head as he walks away. He runs a hand through his hair upwards, trying to get it to maintain its spike. Juvia stares at me with a blush for a moment before awkwardly running off. It's as though she thinks I don't know the shit that goes on in there.

The Christmas music is loud as it drifts upstairs. The neighbors' Christmas lights are bright colors, streaming through the windows as I move around to turn on our own lights. Dad is rushing around last minute in his typical frenzy of pre-party emotions. He straightens the green bow in Meredy's hair, blows nonexistent dust off of Ultear's graduation picture (even while she's at college he feels the need to introduce her), inspects the cookies for decoration malfunctions and yells at me and Lyon to drop attitudes we never picked up. There's a photo of my mom and siblings next to Ultear's. Mom is hugging Lyon (barely age seven) and Ultear (age nine) to her sides, a four-year-old me half asleep in her lap. He hovers in front of Mom's picture for a moment and I think I see something like regret and sorrow flash into his eyes, but then he picks up the frame and hands it to me.

"Put it in your room, will you, sport?" I nod, averting my gaze to the floor and frowning. If only Dad could've always been like this. If only he hadn't had to swallow his temper until we were old enough to handle it because it was nonexistent. If only he could always be the guy who called me sport, threw a baseball with Lyon, tied sloppy ribbons into Ultear's hair when Mom had work and showed genuine sorrow for the loss of his wife. I've always wished that the good nestled within my dad wasn't something that he showed on rare occasions. Unfortunately, it's not who he is. It's only a small part of him that he saves for certain, infrequent times. I just wish that if he's going to be like this for most of the time, the kindness at least towards me would stop completely. It's extremely confusing and makes me wonder if I should stop being so angry towards him. I feel remorse for him when he acts like this.

But then there's always the element that if he didn't have this temper there wouldn't be a lost wife to mourn.

But then there's always the element that if I wasn't such an idiot, his temper would've never flared in the first place.

So then the root of my aversion to my father stems back to my own self-hatred. How's that for a guilt complex?

The party will be long and boring like all parties that my father throws or forces me to attend. Natsu is out of town and can't come and I'm going to be alone. Story of my life.

The guests starts filing in quick, the house filling up within minutes as I watch them from the stairs. They stomp off their boots in the front hall, smile at me as they take off their coats then disappear into the living room, sharing compliments for our decorations and the cookies. Three people compliment me on my cookie decorating as they walk by the stairs to the bathroom. "You outdo yourself every Christmas."

Fashionably late the door creaks open. Dad has been running around asking me if I saw a man named Jude for the past twenty minutes. He's been waiting to do introductions and made it clear that Jude _needed_ to meet us. Before I can even see who enters, Dad is blocking my view, shaking hands with the people who entered and welcoming them.

"Gray, why don't you go stand by the fireplace for the introductions?" he says to me, still talking to the man in the doorway.

Finally Dad is up on the platform, welcoming the guests to the party. The crowd looks ridiculous—a sea of red, green and ugly sweaters.

"Thank you and happy holidays! We, the Milkovich's would like to welcome you personally to our home."

I'll spare you the details of the introductions as you've heard them so _fucking_ many times.

For once in his life, my dad lets me slip away without any post-greeting grievances. I disappear to the snack table and chug a plastic red cup of punch. I swipe my tongue over the metal of my braces, licking off some of the red dye before it sets in and stains my teeth for the night.

"Your dad's quite the character, huh?" I turn at the familiar voice and end up staring blankly at the girl behind me. Lucy Heartfilia. The girl who sits next to me on the bus, led me on (granted it was only for about three minutes, but still), and tops all the classes that I fail. She's standing in the kitchen doorway a black pencil skirt that goes to her mid-thigh, red flats and a tight green sweater. Her arms are crossed in a way that her chest is pushed forwards. Jesus Christ, how is it even possible for a thirteen year old (I think?) to have a bust that size? Granted compared to Sherry's or Juvia's at that age, it's a tad small, but still impressive to a boy my age. All those times when I was ten I said I didn't want to understand the things Lyon liked. Well, life bit me in the ass and I consider myself a kind of extreme case of hormones at their finest. Her hair is tied in its signature style, falling in neat golden strands.

"You've never been to one of my house parties before," I say stupidly.

She laughs, looking over the snack table for something to peak her interest. She settles on a sugar cookie, licking the blue frosting off the snowflake shaped sweet with the tip of her tongue.

"My dad owns a business that just recently started working with your dad's bank. It's why I moved here."

"Oh."

"So I didn't realize you had two last names. Or that you were adopted. I was rather shocked to see you up on that platform."

"Yea well my dad has no problem with torture." Lucy laughs again, hopping up to sit on the counter, leaning backwards on her hands. The jingling of bells from a Pandora station fill the awkward silence. Lucy coughs into the side of her fist.

"It's really loud out there, huh?"

"Yea… You wanna go upstairs or something? My room is the attic—furthest from the noise." Lucy has made no effort to be my friend. I have made no effort to be hers. Despite our meeting, I still feel I should offer to let her escape the Holiday Hell.

She nods quickly with a sheepish smile. I hand her a cup of punch, clinking the plastic together as we slip past our parents in the living room and bound upstairs. Lucy sits down on my bed when we get to my room, comfortable as though she's been there a million times.

"I hope I didn't come across as rude. Just my dad likes to introduce me and stuff and it gets really annoying." She twirls a golden ribbon of hair around her index finger, legs crossed as she props her head up on her hand.

"I understand. Please, I've lived here for three years and my dad still feels the need to tell people that I like to paint."

"My dad likes to tell people I'm thirteen even if I've known them for years and they came to my party."

I laugh slightly, leaning back in a desk chair, feet propped up on my bookshelf. Lucy stands up, adjusting her skirt as she looks around my room. She looks at the Taking Back Sunday album perched on my desk.

"I've never heard of them. Are they any good?" I nod with a half shrug. Of course _I_ think they're good but it doesn't mean Lucy will. A woman opens my door gingerly before coming up the stairs to my room. She bears an uncanny resemblance to Lucy, with the same pale skin, blonde hair and big brown eyes.

"Lu-chan, we're leaving." Lucy huffs, brushing her bangs from her eyes.

"We never stay for full parties." Her mom (I assume) smiles sympathetically.

"Your father's a busy man." She notices me then, smiling and reaching her hand out to shake mine. "I'm Layla. You're Gray, right?" I nod and give a tentative smile.

"Well thank you for keeping my daughter company."

She then begins her descent away and Lucy follows for a moment before stopping and turning to me with a smile.

"You'll have to show me that band some time."

"It's a promise."

 **(haven't figured out those line breaks yet...)**

The day I turn fourteen it's particularly cold. I peel open my eyes to find that the heater is broken again and that there's heavy frost on my window. Even under my thick comforter I feel the chill. Canadian winters were harsh, going to obscene negative temperatures that even the most cold-resistant people would feel. Virginia isn't nearly as intense as the cold in Canada—the frost doesn't smother the air, you don't grow icicles in your lungs, and you don't get violently sick just from going out to check the mail without winter gear on. However, this doesn't mean that the air doesn't raise goosebumps on your arm, nip the tip of your nose red, or make your nose dribble with snot.

Needless to say, I'm fucking cold.

I finally manage to uncurl my cocoon and Behold! An angsty teenage boy has emerged from the Chrysalis! My blue plaid pajama pants pool around my ankles as I pull on a shirt, rubbing beneath my heels and the floor as I pad downstairs. Ultear came home last week and she and Meredy are bound to be awake. The parents' bedroom door is open, propped open by a doorstop revealing a pristinely made bed. Maybe I should've made my bed… Now my sheets will be cold when I go back to bed at in an hour at 1 PM.

Charlotte greets me with a cheerful accusation of me being a "sleepy head;'" Dad gives me a rare smile from behind his newspaper where he's checking stocks; Meredy hugs my leg; Ultear ruffles my hair; Lyon stops slurping cereal like a wildebeest long enough to tell me I was finally a _real_ teen. According to him, thirteen doesn't count because you're still "a little weenie trying to roll with the _real_ teens."

"You're lucky it's your birthday, Gray. Otherwise we wouldn't have waited for you to eat breakfast." I raise an eyebrow at Lyon who is drinking the whole milk remaining in his bowl.

"He doesn't count," Ultear announces, sitting down with a crossed leg as she tosses a dark strand of hair over her shoulder. "I think Mom and Dad got him from an animal shelter, not an adoption center." I grin at her smirk as Lyon pours more cereal obliviously.

There are six paper bags on the counter—one to represent each member of my family. Each year for the little kids our neighborhood lights candles in a bag and line the road with them to "help Santa find his way." Even the Jewish kids on the street and their families participate, simply thinking the candles are a pretty way to brighten up the winter world.

Dad decides to be civil this birthday, letting me hide in the darkness of my room until our neighborhood lights the candle sacks and then we brave the snow and drive to some cheap 364 days a year, all night diner at 10 PM.

Birthdays didn't _always_ go like this. One year Dad was stuck at work on Ultear's birthday so when he finally got home at 9:30 we all hopped in the car and went to a random diner. Charlotte isn't crazy about keeping Meredy up that late, but the little pinkette insists that she's old enough to stay awake without complaining—and she always does.

I always choose the 8 Island diner on my birthday. It's a small, homey place on the far end of town that will give me pancakes no matter how late it is. The bell rings as I enter, the artificial amber lights flicker occasionally. The place has a greasy smell in the air, a few bugs running around here and there but it's extremely comfortable. The radio always plays an obscure acoustics station and there seems to be a light going out every day.

Dad smacks my two presents on the table as I'm smothering a chocolate chip pancake in butter and syrup.

"Here you go, champ." I smile up at him, making a conscious effort to swipe the bangs out of my face like he prefers. The first gift is from my uncle, a small shoebox with old photographs in it. He clearly raided any antique store he could find to look for old post cards, photographs and letters to give me. My uncle and his wife always had a house full of old thrift shop finds and antiques. It was a house of stories and mystery and I guess I gained a clear respect of the items over the years.

Dad got me new colored pencils and detail pens. I know I complain about him hating my art, but at least he doesn't place an embargo on the art store. Good thing too because he can afford Prismacolors. Jackpot.

When we return to the house Dad loses his cheer. He remembers that the heater is broken and that it'll be stuck like that until at least after Boxing Day, when electricians are available. He tells me to actually put my shit away in my room instead of dropping it on the floor and then tells me to make sure I don't leave any of his brother's "creepy crap" laying around.

He then stomps over to the bookcase in the corner of the living room and shoves a box of blank cards to my chest.

"You better start writing birthday thank-you's _soon_. I don't want a repeat of last year."

"I told you a million times. I sent Mrs. Peterson a thank you letter, she must have lost it."

"Just _do it right_ , okay?"

"Okay."

That night I sit alone in the living room, leaning on the window sill with headphones in as I watch snowflakes drift lazily to the ground. My breath forms on the glass as I watch headlights slip by. The neighborhood Christmas lights gather in red, silver, gold and green pools in my eyes as snow smothers the flame of the candles we lit earlier.

I watch as neighbors turn off their lights before going to bed until my birthday is over and the final house loses its color by some parent playing Santa. The red and green is gone. The cheer is asleep. The shadows take their place on guard, following me upstairs as I shuffle away to my bedroom, following me all the way to my bedroom door as it clicks shut.

I mutter a _merry Christmas_ as I climb into bed. I don't think the shadows get to hear that enough.

 **A/N I hope you enjoyed the update. I didn't proof read as it's really late and I have school tomorrow. Please let me know if you noticed any major mistakes!**


	10. Part 2: Appreciate

**CAGED**

 **14 YEARS OLD (2011)**

 **Part 2:** _ **Appreciate**_

Natsu is staying at my house two days before winter break ends, laying on his stomach on my bed as I work through a pile of blank thank you cards. I typically go to his house, but his father was out of town for a doctor's convention and he needed a place to stay. He proof-reads the letters for me before my dad gets home from some office party at the bank he took Meredy to. Natsu doesn't like reading, but he understands the need to make sure my dad doesn't lose his shit.

"Ah, you messed this one up. You mixed up b and d again and thanked someone for a 'dasedall glove.' You don't even play baseball, why the hell did someone get you that?"

"I ask myself that every year." I roll over to him on my desk chair, snatching the letter from his grasp. I'm genuinely proud of myself for that being the only mistake. Typically my thank you notes turn into an anagram.

I fix that one and move on just as Dad walks up into my bedroom. He's running a hand through his hair, chomping loudly into an apple that I'm not allowed to eat. Because braces. He's changed from his suit and tie into a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey and gray sweats. He reaches a hand over to the stereo and turns down the volume of Gerard Way singing about guillotines.

"You should've seen Meredy at that party. She was so great!"

"Was she?" I ask with an intentionally bright smile, lifting my eyebrows to make him think I'm slightly less of a pessimistic asshole. Natsu rolls his eyes as he bites into a sandwich pulled out of his duffle bag.

"Oh yea! Everyone loved her there. She soaked up that attention." He sits down on my bed next to Natsu and I stifle a laugh as Natsu shifts further towards the edge of the bed. My father doesn't notice the movement however, immediately picking up the finished cards off my bed. "So how many did you get done?"

"I dunno. Like 10?"

"What were you doing all night?"

"Winter projects?"

He looks at me in a way that clearly states he's not buying it. He begins reading the card I just edited, smiling as he scans it, nodding with his brow furrowed slightly, showing he's pleased but can clearly see the white-out I used over the d's in "dasedall."

He moves onto the next one, leaning back against my pillow with the apple poised in his hand as his eyes scan over it. I watch him with bated breath as he reads it, eyes flittering to the socks on his feet. He's less threatening without his work shoes. He seems like less of a banker and more like my dad. Natsu looks utterly bored, tapping around on his iPhone to pass the time.

"This one's perfect, G."

"Seriously? Which one?" I roll over with a genuine grin, leaning my chin into my hand, elbow pressed into thigh. Natsu tries not to laugh as my chair gets clips the side of my trumpet case and knocks it over with a loud clanging sound. I keep the smile plastered and blink about a million times. Dad rolls his eyes before continuing.

"Ethel Heerlen. You mentioned the gift, spelled everything right, and said you were looking forward to going to her granddaughter's graduation."

"Great."

I feel slightly more at ease knowing I haven't totally fucked up yet. I poke my pen at my knee, watching him as he freezes on a letter. I wish I knew which one he had. I know of many Natsu said were messed up that I had planned to go back and change. He clenches a fist and sits up in my bed.

"What the _hell_ did you do to this one?"

I hear Meredy's footsteps downstairs as Lyon tries to corner her into her bedroom. She giggles loud enough for me to hear, taking off downstairs.

"You don't mention the gift, you don't have four lines, and you turned half of it into a goddamn anagram to top it off."

Natsu excuses himself to the bathroom.

"Which one?"

"It doesn't _fucking_ matter, does it?" I stand up, stepping towards him to get a peek at the letter.

"Don't you dare come here."

"Why?"

"Just _don't_ , okay?" He stands up, running a hand through his silver hair as though he's deeply distressed. "How do you spell _appreciate_?"

I wrack my brain for as long as he'll let me get away with it. I can't stand up to him like Lyon can.

"A-p-p-r-e-c-e—"

" _No!_ Check the dictionary!"

I shakily flip through the As, looking slowly for the right word. Is this even the As? Tantrums make my dyslexia flare up, making Dad even angrier and near impossible to work with.

"Maybe it's not in there, huh, _champ_?"

"I found it."

"Now is it spelled a-p-p-r-e-c- _e_?"

"I-I don't think so?"

"You don't _think_ so? Either it does or it doesn't. Now what's the answer?"

"No." He moves close to me, gripping my head in his tight grasp. The card scratches my face, now crumpled in his grasp.

"Okay so how am I supposed to explain to my friends that my son destroyed his own brain in a crash that wouldn't have happened if he wasn't so goddamn pathetic?"

" _What_?"

"You heard me. You know, Grayson, I would _love_ to know what went through your head when you wrote that godforsaken name there. What did you think it would accomplish?"

"I-I don't know."

He smiles at me evilly, moving his hands to my shoulders, shaking me almost playfully. It'd be happy if his eyes weren't murderous.

"Did you think if you wrote that your real _Mommy and Daddy_ would sweep in and take you away from Ur and I? Huh?" I shake my head.

" _Words_."

"No."

"Well good because they _left_ you, understand? They left you to me and your mom. If only you could've understood that sooner. Then maybe you wouldn't have another parent leave you." I blink, tears forming in my eyes and blurring my vision. Dad has _never_ attacked me for Ur's death before, or for my parents putting me up for adoption. And now a dumb thank you card jarred all my insecurities out of someone else's mouth.

"You blame me for her death, don't you? Well you know what, _G_? It wasn't my fault. If you hadn't written that fuckin' surname, I wouldn't have gotten mad. And you know what, if your parents had wanted you, the issue of two last names wouldn't have arisen at all. So once again the source of the issues rolls back to how _pathetic_ the motherfucking _Fullbusters_ are. I never had this issue with the Vastias before."

" _What_?"

"God, I thought you were clueless _before_ the accident." He grabs my head again, shaking it like he hadn't done since the accident. Harder, even. I feel my brain rattling, tears shaking themselves from my eyes. "Maybe before you go point the finger of a fourteen-year-old's _mighty judgement_ at me, you take a long hard look at you and your own parents."

The tears are falling freely now and I watch his face turn from anger to shock.

"Oh, Jesus, Gray. I'm sorry." I stare at him incredulously, blinking the tears out to try and get rid of them faster.

"Are you fucking bipolar?" He recoils, shocked. I've never outright yelled at him like that before. "Will you just leave? I'll fix the _fucking_ cards just _go_."

He leaves the room, Natsu quickly running up the stairs. He stops and stares at me in shock. I've never let emotions out so freely in front of him, or even myself. My thoughts barely register. To hear my insecurities come out of that man's mouth is the worst thing I've heard since I was told my mom died. The tears are dripping onto my feet, falling from the blue eyes colorlessly. It's almost like I felt like these tears would strip my eyes of the blue, leaving them gray like my name.

Natsu hugs me awkwardly at first, but before long we're sat on my bed together with him rubbing circles on my back as I shake in his grasp.

 **TIME SKIP**

The next few days after tantrums leave me feeling blank. Natsu asks Lucy to sit next to me on the bus on Monday. We sit in silence. No music, no more tears, no words.

I try to leave him at his locker but stops me. "Wait."

"I'm gonna be late, Natsu."

"Don't you wanna talk about that?"

"No."

"C'mon you gotta hate him doing that!"

"I'm… used to it."

"That's even worse."

"Good _bye_ , Natsu."

"No, he was out of line."

"It was my fault."

"No, it wasn't."

"My dad… loves me… Okay?" I pivot on my heel and try to walk away but the pinkette's voice stops me one more time.

"You call that love?"

It's like a punch in the face. It's being thrown into a brick wall and having my chest ripped out. Tears well in my eyes again, Lucy and my other peers just feet away.

"Leave me alone, Natsu."

But it's true. I know it is. My parents didn't love me. Ur can't love me anymore. Dad doesn't love me. Hell, I don't love me.

It's one thing to think those things to yourself. You can write it off as teenage angst. But when the main people in your life—your father and your best friend—agree with you, the thoughts become unthinkable.

 **Unedited**

 **Yea, Jacob's reaction was uncalled for, but so are lots of things.**

 **-c.v.**


	11. Part 2: Thank You

**CAGED**

 **14 YEARS OLD (2011)**

 **Part 2: _Thank You_**

Dear Eli Parker,

I wanted to thank you for your very generous gift of a paint set. I have already began using it and I hate to inform you that the beautiful paints are now swirled and mixed as with my old, rusty brushes scratch them. Despite this, I still use them and enjoy them.

I quite like the new freedom I get without my dad breathing down my neck writing these. I feel as though I can write anything. See? Cock, piss, dick, fuck, asshole, twat. With said freedom I would like to tell you the story of this friend I have. Coincidentally his name is also Gray, short for Grayson. No, it isn't me, Mr. Parker. That I assure you. We are similar in many ways, like being forced to go to church and worship a god they doubt exists, but this friend feels the need to express his feelings in writing and arts instead of telling them, and as this is his story and not mine, it cannot be interpreted the same way. His life is very lonely, while mine… Well, that's a different story.

See this friend of mine doesn't have many friends. The few he has, he feels, don't really understand him. So he finds solace in his craft and listening to music. Being alone is comfortable but sometimes, Mr. Parker, comfort is lonely. Sometimes the things we take the greatest solace thing, are also our greatest threats. This, is my friend's fatal flaw. He involves himself in things he knows will suffocate him, but never kill him. Gray used to be a great student who actually cared, but as adolescence attacks him in the form of sadness, loneliness, acne and braces, he finds that he is losing the lust to live a wonderful life.

He finds himself staring at blank canvases and unlined paper for hours, music in the background as he ignores his dad's return from work, his younger sister's excited shouts outside his window, his older brother humping his girlfriend into the floorboards and his step-mom calling him down for dinner. He is truly blank in these moments, much like the canvas he stares at. He tries to convince himself, as the guitars strum a melody behind him, that he is okay with the blankness of this canvas, and the way his soul mirrors it. That it shows he can go anywhere and do anything, as he is empty. Uncolored. Unwritten. Unplanned. But in reality he wishes that his hands would take control of his body in a different way than it typically does. Not to tap awkwardly on his leg. Not to run a stressed hand through his dark hair. Not to rub his tired eyes as he attempts to finish homework at 1 AM. He wishes it would paint something that could prove a father he loathes, yet still loves, that he is good enough to make it. Good enough to have crowds at house parties to be told he was a legitimate painter, not someone who just paints and has survived a horrible tragedy, which is why his disappointment is okay.

As I said, Mr. Parker, this friend of mine used to be a good student. Excellent, actually. Grades that would make his father brag, except in math. Those were brushed under the rug. But, when Gray was ten, a fatal car crash took his adoptive mom's life and damaged his brain, giving him a severe case of dyslexia. He can no longer read stories for solace and escape so now relies only on the voice of a lead singer telling a story that isn't quite as clear as the ones in books. I hope my story isn't unclear. Or perhaps I do. Mysteries are rather thrilling at times.

Dyslexia makes school rather hard for our dear protagonist. He stares at papers during tests and exams and sighs rather loudly, tapping his pencil on his answer sheet. 20 minutes left before the exam ends and he still hasn't filled out a single bubble. His teacher lays a hand on his shoulder and says, "Fill them in, even if you don't know the answer." So he gives up reading. He could've been done with this earlier if he had done that from the beginning, but he waits for the teacher to tell him it's okay to give up trying first. He seeks the approval of people he can't stand, and that is bad. Even he acknowledges it. But now he has the green light. So he guesses for them all. He fills it out in a zigzag pattern sometimes. A.

After the examinations he slings his bag onto his shoulder and leaves the classroom in silence, ignoring his teacher's pitied glance boring into his back. He walks faster. Gray has learned what sets a teacher off into wanting to stop you and talk about your feelings. He feels it's an unnecessary waste of time.

Despite Gray wishing he got invited out by his friends more, the more times he isn't, the easier it is for him to slip away and go hide out in his room. He had no friends in Canada, and he is falling back into his easy acceptance of the fact that he's alone. Some days he listens to rock music that'll get him in trouble for noise and will do his screaming for him. On days he particularly isn't up for participating in life, and the thoughts swallow him whole, quite like today, actually, he listens to bands like Bright Eyes that will tell a story in unclear lyrics and make him feel less alone. The lead singer seems to understand how he feels, and to a degree, he takes comfort in it, but to another degree he thinks it's sad that someone else has to live the life he does.

He gets so engrossed in nothing that he doesn't hear his step mom call him for dinner, and only vaguely realizes the steps of his dad come clomping upstairs to get him. Even when he misses the stomps completely, he knows by the forced smile on his adoptive father's face that he's annoyed. Ever since Gray's father blew up at him days ago, he had made strained efforts to ignore the quirks that he always found insufferable about his charity. Gray no longer thinks of himself as his father's son, as he recently realized he never was. He used to hope that even though he was nothing like this man who lived with him, that he was at least his son. Nope. He's just charity work to puff up the founder's ego. Isn't that all charity is? No good deed is done without some form of self-interest involved.

So Gray is shuffling through life. He's living by a soundtrack that seems better suited for someone who doesn't kill people as rebellion. Gray didn't mean to kill his mother, honest. But he distracted her, so that's enough.

Sometimes, Gray creates a different kind of painting. The specifics are unnecessary, but he paints only in red and his paintbrush is silver and rusty. It's not a paintbrush to be found in an art store, but a paintbrush none the less. He finds that he rather likes how this painting of his looks, but he washes it off his legs in the shower. The teenager has found that painting on one's own skin gives character. He watches the colors slip down the drain and kiss the tan tile with its crimson luster before disappearing all together, and he is left with only a faint ghost of this painting on his skin. He doesn't do it often. Maybe once a month. Sometimes even less. But the painting is pretty and the brushes pinch his skin in a way that brings feeling to it.

Painting on his skin lets him know he's alive. Because he knows that the red on his leg, echoes that in his leg as well.

I felt I should share this story with you, like Gray thought he should share it with me, because we're all artists. Artists know how great a perfect painting feels, even if they've never made the style themselves. If one artist shares art with another, it is like code not to share it with anyone but a fellow artist. So I shared it with you, because I have no one else who needs an outlet. They can be their own.

Oh, I almost forgot, Mr. Parker.

Sometimes the raven we're discussing (I'm serious, not me!) wonders if the painting's beauty would be destroyed, if the artist ends up dead. The cause of death would be announced soon after. Murder.

It would be the painting that killed him.

Yours truly,

Gray Fullbuster

 **There was just a ghost of editing on this… I hope it turned out okay. Sorry it's short.**

 **I don't own Fairy Tail.**

 **Gray's a bit sad, okay? We all get like that.**

 **-c.v.**


	12. Part 2: Unread

**I don't own FT**

 **CAGED**

 **14 YEARS OLD (2011)**

 **Part 2: _Unread_**

When the weather begins to warm up, my friends and I spend a lot of time at the park. Various activities peak our interests there. Lucy and Levy read. Cana sneaks a beer out of her purse and watches me skateboard while offering wary children Tarot Card readings. Natsu, Gajeel and co. shoot hoops.

Cana drops her empty can of beer on the bench and stands in front of me, distracting me from a flip of my board. I trip on it and fall to the ground, holding out a middle finger when Lucy starts laughing. I'm not actually mad. Her laugh is too airy and innocent to get mad at. She grins into her book at me.

"When are you going to go on the half-pipe?"

"Huh?" I pick up my knees, carefully extracting pebbles from my skin with precision.

"C'mon, Gray. You're pretty good. And I'm bored of watching you fall on flat surfaces. I wanna watch you slide afterwards."

"Bitch," I mutter, shaking my head as I blow on the cuts on my knees. The sky is darkening with spring showers, clouds gathering together in one communal gray mass. A loud clap of thunder rattles the sky, drawing our attention as a light drizzle begins and dark circles appear on the pavement.

"And there's my cue to leave." I stand up, raising a hand as some form of waving as I mount the skateboard with a loud snap and drift away. The whirring of wheels is familiar. The skateboard bucks slightly when I roll over stones, the dirt on the ground hanging onto the wheels and turning the red a gritty gray.

The rain is already fading. It exploded into pouring rain and I ducked under a tree as the clouds spilled out their contents. The rain is extremely unpredictable in March. When I make it home I drop the board on the lawn, trudging up to the driveway. The screen door is shut, but the door itself is open, trickled with raindrops. Meredy is eating a peanut butter sandwich when I enter the kitchen.

Charlotte tosses me a can of lemonade, scolding me to take off my dirty Converse and carry them upstairs instead of tracking dirt. I don't mind them being dirty, but my parents do. It creates nonexistent tracks for Charlotte to clean up, and Dad thinks it shows a lack of money. I think Converse actually look cooler filthy.

Meredy runs off to get Lyon and Juvia, asking them to play with her. This is how warm weekends go: I'm forced to sit on the driveway with my family, watching Meredy draw with chalk. At least my parents will let me bring headphones out.

Lyon sits in the grass with Juvia, Dad working on some bankers stuff while Charlotte and I draw with Meredy on the driveway. I lay on my stomach on the black asphalt, making random lines on the pavement. I chip away at the side of the chalk into a line in my driveway, watching the powder fall into the crack.

Rolling onto my back, I look up at the sky. There's chalk gathered in the lines of my hand and on my knee. The air is cool with spring weather, moisture clinging into the air. It's almost bizarre that Lyon is here. He's been spending increasing amounts of time at Juvia's. Maybe he wants to move in with her. I wish he talked to me more. I wish he'd give me something—anything—to show he doesn't hate me for what happened with Ur.

Charlotte has laid a black polo shirt on my bed by the time I go to get ready for my arts audition. I've already gotten into Fairy Tail High School, but managed to force my dad into agreeing to let me try and join their arts program. I think he only agreed because he thinks I won't get in. Why they have dragged teachers and students to auditions on a Saturday, I don't know.

I run a finger on the fabric of the polo, looking at it in silence for a few beats. I haven't worn a polo since the day my mom died. I've never liked them. They've always choked me and made me feel uncomfortable. Lyon's the one driving me to the audition anyway, I could probably get away with not wearing it. Who wears a polo shirt to an arts audition anyway?

I stuff the shirt under my mattress, along with the gray dress pants my step-mom set down. Instead, I pull a plain black T-shirt over my head and an old pair of jeans, then grab my portfolio off the floor and bound downstairs. Lyon is waiting for me in the living room, texting who I can only assume is Juvia or Yuka. He looks up at me in silence and then stands up and scoops his keys off the table, moving towards the front door.

I hope that he'll offer some supportive, brother words, but he never does. He hates me. And for some reason I can never remember that.

I never did have the best memory.

* * *

The auditorium is filled with students, spread out amongst the seats, speaking in low, nervous voices. There are people with instruments, sheet music, leotards and portfolios. Lyon and I sit in the middle, somewhere closer to the front than the back. They slapped a bright green sticker onto my portfolio. There's a hastily scrawled 13 on it. The bright color stares me in the eyes, standing out against the black portfolio. I'm vaguely aware of Lyon watching my blank stare with something of concern.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, finally breaking my concentration. Sometimes I can't focus on anything, others I'm too focused. Ultear blames it on a mix of Dad shaking my head so much and the car crash.

The message is from Natsu, wishing me luck and what-not. Then there's one from an unfamiliar number.

 _It's Lucy. Natsu gave me your phone number. I just wanted to wish you good luck. You'll do great. That…_

The preview stops there. I wonder if Natsu is with Lucy. He said he had plans tonight and she had too.

The side door to the auditorium swings open and a man begins calling numbers. "G, they're calling you! Goddammit, just _go_ you little twerp." I blink, shooting from the chair. My legs sway in nerves as I climb up the incline. There's a group of kids in their early teens standing in front of the door. I made the right choice not to wear a polo.

I walk at the back of the pack, looking at all the artwork lining the school's walls. There's no way in Hell I'm getting in.

* * *

The audition is weird. We sit in cafeteria-like tables, drawing a photo up on the board. All the kids are focused and staring at their works, erasing periodically. I realize when I try to erase and just leave a smudge of ink across the paper that I've been using a pen and not a pencil. I also realize then that I'm a dumbfuck. Now there's a black line down the side of the page.

"Shit," I mutter. The kid sitting across from me leans forward slowly, appraising my drawing before he begins talking in a low tone.

"Don't worry about it, they're just going to be seriously impressed that you did that without a sketch."

"They're not going to know."

"If you want, I can make some offhanded comment about how nervous I am. Say something like, 'This place is seriously intimidating, the kid after me didn't even sketch out his work.' Besides trust me, you've got a better chance of getting in than half of these people. One kid's fence look like broken braces." I smile, stifling a laugh. The place is too quiet for us to converse loudly.

"Thanks. Yours is great too."

"Thanks. I'm Loke, by the way. I don't even want to be here. My mom thinks I should exploit my talents, though." I smile, introducing myself just as people begin lining up to show their portfolio work."

Loke smiles at me as he goes into the room, glasses glinting in the light as he pushes them off his nose. I tap my foot periodically, waiting for my turn. I look at people showing their works to each other, with fancy paintings and drawings in $50 portfolios.

There is a line of adults sitting at a table. I stand there awkwardly, fiddling with the seams of my t-shirt and biting my right thumb nail as they silently go through my artwork, asking me questions about the tools I used every few paintings and drawings.

They don't make a single comment besides that. Finally, the ginger man snaps it shuts and hands it back to me with a blank face. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Fullbuster."

I hesitate a moment, looking between the teacher and my portfolio, before I grab it, biting my fingernail as I start towards the door.

The doorknob's metal is cool on my hand, sending a calming feeling across my skin. When I begin to open the door, the ginger begins speaking again.

"And Mr. Fullbuster?" He grins at me. "You really should stop biting your nails. Hard habit to break."

Lyon is tapping his foot impatiently when I return to the auditorium. He mutters a _let's go_ as we head towards the door. Loke's standing out there, his mom finishing up a conversation with one of the guidance counselors. Loke tosses me a smirky smile as he heads out the door, but he doesn't say anything. I blink suddenly. _Wait… Is he wearing a tuxedo?_

* * *

That night, I lay in bed staring at the phonescreen, the same TBS album going through what must be it's thousandth loop. I still don't know what Lucy's message says fully. I don't know what that that leads to. I consider replying, but if neither she nor Natsu decided to send a follow up text, it must not be important. Then the light of the screen shuts off, no longer lighting up my face, and I cant bright myself to light it back up.

I let my arm fall to my side, blinking in the darkness.

I don't think I've ever had so many unread messages.

* * *

 **I hope that wasn't too bad. I just really felt like I was rushing this chapter, but I knew I needed to update for you guys. If I try to rewrite it, it'll just be a mess to be honest.**

 **-CV**


	13. Part 2: Unfriended

**unedited**

 **i do not own fairy tail. nor will i ever**

 **CAGED**

 ** _Part 2 – UNFRIENDED_**

 ** _14 years old_**

LUCY SMILES AT me when she gets on the bus, and I return the gesture half-heartedly, leaning against the window with my headphones in, listening to some playlist of acoustics on my phone.

The rain is dripping down the window as it drizzles, lit up by the sunlight streaming through a haze of light gray clouds. They roll over the horizon with a creamy texture, with thin strands enclosing them like wisps of unflavored cotton candy.

A finger taps gingerly at my shoulder and Lucy pulls my headphone out.

"You didn't respond to my message. I said it was me… Did you delete it because you didn't recognize my number?" I blink as I turn sideways, bending one leg onto the seat and leaving the other on the ground as I face her. I was not expecting to be confronted.

"No, I wouldn't have deleted it without reading it. I must not have gotten it." Lying has always come easily to me. I would be lying (hah hah, irony) if I said it didn't, but lying to Lucy left a hollow feeling in my stomach. The emptiness of it bubbled up, and a bitter taste was left in my mouth. I swallow the lump in my throat, continuing my sentence, unsure of whether I was trying to make her feel better or myself. "W-What did the message say?" Do I really want to know?

"I was just wishing you luck on your audition. How'd that go anyway?" She turns in her seat to face me, curling her long, porcelain legs underneath her as she leans her arms into her lap. She has a small, amused smile on her face, as though she doesn't really know why she's asking anyway.

I start off very slowly, carefully reviewing my words before they leave my mouth—I didn't want to say something unintentionally depressing or particularly morbid—but the more I spoke, the more comforted I got by the gentle look in her eyes, and the more the subtle wave to the ends of her hair lit up my eyes with their golden hue, and I was talking naturally, fluidly.

Something about the way the sunlight is casting its rays through the raindrops, leaving speckled shadows in her hair, and the way she seems genuinely interested in what I have to say… I don't know what the word to describe it is, but it leaves me feeling warm. And not feeling hot like I do when I'm angry, or the heavy warmth that sticks to your skin on a humid day. It's more like sitting in front of my fireplace in Isvan. The warmth spread over parts of me that I hadn't realized were cold until they began to thaw.

But, like the fire in the fireplace, I think deep down I know I can't get too close. I never can. Some things can only feel nice from afar.

NEEDLESS TO SAY, I'm completely speechless, and slightly miffed when Natsu and Lucy announce they're "going with" each other. In theory, I should've noticed before that the time they spend together outside of school, and the way they constantly seek each other out for projects and have a bit of a flirty, subdued vibe around them probably pointed to something more. Yet, despite the fact I realize I just failed to pay attention to their actions, I still find myself stopping Natsu in the hallway on the way to the bus ramp.

"So… you and Lucy?"

"Yea…"

"I didn't know you were interested in her." I pause, considering my words carefully. "She just never seemed like your type, and you never really talked about her."

In the crammed hallways, our shoulders rock against each other, weaving in and out of the crowds. I glance away briefly to make sure I avoid walking into a much bigger kid than me. In my peripheral vision I see Natsu cast me a sideways glance, confusion and exasperation in his gaze.

"Uh… Yea. I have." His sentence was drawn out slow, as though he couldn't believe what he was talking about the topic at hand. "A lot…"

"Really?"

" _Yes_."

I bark out a startled laugh. "What? You couldn't have talked to me, I think I would've remembered."

Natsu slams his hand against his leg. "Jesus Christ, Gray. I know you have your own issues or whatever, but maybe if you acted like the 'best friend' you claim to be actually listened to me, you'd know this."

He storms off towards the busses, shaking his head as he stomps away. I'm left staring at his retreating form, watching it get smaller until he turns a corner and disappears. I can't bring myself to follow him. I want to—I _really_ do—but knowing Natsu, I'd probably just make it worst.

I take a few steps backwards, barely processing as my legs hit a bench against the wall and I trip backwards onto it. My sketchbook hangs precariously in between my thumb and index finger, slipping to the ground with a clatter that echoes in the quickly emptying hallway.

BY THE TIME I begin going home, the busses are pulling out, so I walk. I don't mind walking home. In the freshly spring weather, it's actually quite nice. Sometimes I'd walk home even if I didn't miss the bus. I'd like to think that when I'm older and have kids I can tell them I walked home after school, and that they can too, if they want. I don't want to pressure them.

I grasp everything as I walk home. The way passing cars bring gusts of both warm and cold air, and how music envelopes my senses for just a few seconds like a glimpse into their life. The clouds have a perfect fluffiness to them, gentle and pure white against the blue sky. I tried taking a picture to remember by, but the sunlight made it impossible to see, and my eyes were starting to hurt. I'll just need to try and remember, whether it's for a painting or my hypothetical children I don't know.

Maybe they wouldn't want to walk home. Maybe they wouldn't even listen. I don't think _well, one day I had pretty much lost my best and probably only friend and after missing the bus because I was in a dazed stupor, I walked home. This is what I found, and you can find it too!_ would sound very convincing to listen to. Maybe they would listen. Or maybe they'd just say I was pretentious and move on.

I sometimes wish my dad would talk to me about the things I plan to talk to my potential kids about. And then I start wondering if he ever thought about what he'd talk to his kids about. Or if he ever thought he'd adopt two of his three children. I wonder if he wanted his kids to be like him. I wonder if we're good enough even if we're not.

There's a thing about being adopted. If you still have your biological parents, they mostly have an obligation to love you. When you're adopted, you're stuck pondering if you were really the way your "parents" wanted to go. You have to worry about whether or not they regret choosing you, or if you feel like their kid to them. Every time an adopted kid questions whether he considers his guardians his parents, surely the parent is thinking about whether or not they consider their charge their kid, right?

I'm halfway home when my phone rings. I expect an angry dad, or a worried step-mother wondering where I am, but instead it's Natsu. It's my chance to apologize.

Before I can even speak, Natsu begins talking. His sentences are short and straight to the point, yet I still can't quite grasp what's going on, and instead I'm sputtering for air and shaking as I gasp out the replies I think Natsu needs and wants to hear.

"I'm done."

"What?"

"You heard me, okay? I'm done, Gray. I'm done with your bullshit." Natsu sounds mad and annoyed.

"My… Bullshit?"

"You don't listen to me, you're constantly pessimistic and sarcastic, you make me feel upset when you just sit there in silence, and because you don't seem happy with my company or everyone else's. You make us feel _bad_ , okay? You constantly look like you're dead to the world, you mostly refuse to hang out with me and our other friends and you barely even talk to me unless your dad does something—what kind of a shitty friendship is that?"

"I… I'm sorry."

"Look, don't even try it, okay? Even if you are, until you prove that you can change the way you act, I don't want to be around you."

"I'm sorry."

"You're corrosive, alright? I get the accident screwed around with your head or whatever, and I'm sorry. I 'm sorry your dad's a dick, I'm sorry Lyon blames or whatever, I'm sorry your mom died, but we're all sick of it. We're all sick of feeling like we're not good enough. You hold these impossible expectations for life and nothing is ever good enough for your standards, even yourself. I'm sick of it. We all are. We're sick of you making us feel bad for being happy, and for feeling close with each other. You constantly seem to blame us because _you_ feel disconnected from the world. We can't help it when you get in dazes, and when you get into them it still feels like it's our fault."

"I'm sorry."

"Jesus Christ, can you say something different than 'I'm sorry?'"

"I don't think I know what else to say."

"How about that you'll try and do better?"

"If none of you want to even see me, why do you want me to do better?"

"Fine, then don't be better for us, be better for the next set of friends you have."

"But if I don't have a reference point, or someone to guide me, how am I supposed to know if I'm doing better or if I'm doing worse?"

"Figure it out yourself."

"Okay…"

"See, you don't even care."

"I do care."

"If you cared you wouldn't just agree with me and apologize mindlessly."

"I'm sorry… I just thought you didn't want to be my friend anymore."

"I don't. I'm _not_."

"Well if you've already made up your mind, why does it matter what I do anymore?"

"Fuck off, Gray."

The phone clicks off and I begin slowly shuffling home, the phone still open in my hand. Raindrops begin slowly littering the pavement, and the sun begins setting before I'm even home. At some point, Lyon's truck slows down beside me, and he and Juvia have me sit in between them.

I lean my head against the seat, eyes closed as Lyon talks to Charlotte on the phone, assuring that I'm okay but in 'another daze' (since when have 'dazes' been an official thing for me?) and that he's going to drop Juvia off and then take me for food.

By the time we get through the drive-thru, the rain is splattering against the windshield so intensely, Lyon simply pulls into a parking spot and leaves the windshield wipers on high. I lean against the window and watch raindrops trickle down glass, pounding against the car with a vehement force that shakes the trees and rattles the outside world in its tracks. The rain is a typhoon of water that seems to wobble the entire universe when in reality, it is only in our pocket of the universe.

I don't know how long we sit there, but the minutes slid by until the pinks and oranges of early sunset slipped below the horizon and turned to rich purple and midnight blue. Finally I speak. No context is added besides the single sentence I say. No extra details. No story. Just a sentence, and then silence.

"I have no friends anymore."

"So? Your friends sucked anyway."

Lyon pats my shoulder and begins driving home. The windows are rolled down, and the radio is set to a random station that I choose not to listen to carefully too. Stray raindrops fly from the car and past my vision, the ambient glow of streetlights reflecting in puddles and leaving shaking illumination on the road.

My only real coherent thought is that I never got to show Taking Back Sunday to Lucy.

 ** _Unknown Number:_** _It's Lucy. Natsu gave me your phone number. I just wanted to wish you good luck. You'll do great. That painting you did for history was amazing. You're a great artist. It's amazing one person can have so much talent._

 **-c.v.**


	14. Part 3: Cigarette Smoke and Cherry Coke

**edit: when i originally wrote this chapter, i had changed gray's height from what it says on google (5'9), to a taller height (5'11) but have since changed my mind and made him 5'9 as it says online**

 **disclaimer: i don't own fairy tail**

 ** _CHAPTER WARNINGS:_** **talk of drug use, intense kissing, brief unwanted sexual advantages smoking, underage drinking, fighting, cursing (honestly what's new for that one?)**

 **CAGED**

 **16/17 YEARS OLD (2014/15)**

 ** _Part 3: cigarette smoke and cherry coke_**

LYON AND I don't talk. We don't smile, or do anything more social than make brief eye contact and nod as he locks the door of his car and drives away, and go off on our separate ways. He's taken a gap year after graduating while Juvia finishes her final year of high school. He's never around much these days. He's always with Juvia. Maybe he unofficially lives with her now. Half of the time she comes to our house, but if not goes to her house right after whatever plans or work shift he has and stays there until three AM, trusting me to cover for him on days he's not supposed to go out.

The last time we talked was his graduation, when he got a new, better car and slapped the keys to his truck in my hand. Even then all I said was thanks, and all he did was grunt. That's about as social as it gets.

I'm not going to claim to have some higher, open relationship with my brother like in movies and books, because that's about as real as Narnia. Even with our agreements and sense of brotherly trust, we don't talk to each other. We don't have some secret side that only the other one knows of, and we don't share secrets besides the ones we created together. He hasn't seemed to genuinely care about me since Ur died, and I've finally stopped caring. That's about as real as brotherhood gets. It's also as pathetic as it gets, it seems.

Lyon comes into my room at 8 PM on a Friday night, in early September before he leaves to go on a nighttime escapade with his girlfriend. I'm lying in my bed, half-finished, ignored homework scattered around me, staring at my ceiling. After months of silence and unspoken conversations, he decides his first words to me should be an insult.

"God, you're so fucking lame."

"What?"

"What the hell is your deal? You're in high school, you've got a fucking car and yet you _still_ spend all your time in your room. You're literally doing homework on Friday night."

"I have dyslexia you know, it's hard to do homework."

"Don't bullshit me, it's not so hard it takes three days to do. If you don't go out and _do_ something besides smoke cigarettes you're gonna regret it." He leaves before I can reply. I sit up and look around my room.

All the posters for bands from my emo phase are gone, replaced by bands like the Strokes, Arctic Monkeys and Cage the Elephant. My keyboard stands propped up in the corner of my room with my guitar, both covered in a light sheen of dust despite near constantly being played. Ambient light from the streets lights my Canadian flag aglow, a cold breeze sweeping through the window. My cigarettes are lying on the desk, along with my sketchpad and cell phone. Clothes litter my floor, pushed into corners and against walls.

Lyon's right. However, I don't have many friends and seeing as I suffer from RAS (resting asshole face) I don't often make new ones. Despite this, I stand up, digging through the piles of clothes until I find my jacket, the least wrinkled band shirt I could see and old jeans. Grabbing my phone, I listen to it ring one, two, three times before it's picked up.

"Cana, get Loke. We're going out."

DEEP DOWN I know my plan is a long-shot. I didn't plan it out well. I didn't plan it period. In a spur of the moment decision influenced by Lyon's natural dickishness, somehow I have decided to see if I can use Cana's still semi-friendship with Lucy as well as Loke's "mystery drugs" (catnip) and smooth-talking to get into Natsu's party.

I don't expect it to work, but as it turns out, I'm a pretty smooth talker myself.

My car shudders to a stop blocks away from Natsu's house. I can hear the beat pulsing from his mansion as soon as Loke, Cana and I round the first corner. The air is sticky and warm, with cicadas buzzing in the trees, in the last sparks of summer. I wipe my brow as sweat begins to form, the air like a heavy blanket over my skin.

When the house finally comes into view it's not like I expected. There are no teens sprawled out on the grass, half-drunken beers still teetering on the edge of their fingers, spilling over the lawn and soaking into the grass. Instead most everyone is inside or clearly gathered out back by the pool, a few stragglers conversing in the front lawn. Red plastic cups litter the grass, but the house is otherwise in pretty clean shape.

I'm surprised when we walk through the unlocked front door with no issue, but we soon are stopped by Gajeel, his girlfriend Levy clinging to his arm with a slightly tipsy expression on her face.

"What the fuck are you three doing here?"

"We're here for the party."

"What makes you think you were invited?"

"If we're not invited, what are we supposed to do with all these drugs?" Loke holds his bag of cat-nip out to me. I shake it with a smirk on my face, holding a steady gaze with the taller boy.

He raises a dark eyebrow as he looks at the bag. "What the hell is that?"

"The fun is in the mystery, mate." I'm surprise by how easily the words are coming out of my mouth. I'm the orphaned, adopted boy who was always outcasted in the friend group, with dyslexia and a lame music taste to boot who got cut off for being "corrosive" and having a car crash "screw with my mind," and yet I'm talking to the boy who constantly teased me as though I've always had the balls to stand up for myself.

Gajeel grins a toothy grin, and I watch how the skin fold around his piercings. He takes the bag from my hand and turns to the living room, where most of the crowd is.

"Yo, Gray, Cana and Loke just brought us a shit-ton of drugs!" The crowd cheers, and I find my mouth sliding back into that smirk I didn't know I had.

I turn to go off and find beer for my trio, but Loke stops me, a smile on his face. "Dude, who are you?"

"I'm the new and improved Gray Fullbuster."

THE PARTY GOES on for hours. I smoke cigarettes in the corner and socialize with two girls wearing heavy eye-makeup and tights black jeans. One of them has bleach blonde hair, brown roots peeking out of the bottom. Her name is Alice and she takes the Marlboro out of my hand and takes a long, slow drag. Her dark red lipstick leaves a print on the base, and we talk about life and love, and how relationships are pretty much a drag. She says religion is a bullshit distraction from our own mortality. I say I agree. I say that love is a social construct to cover up lust and turn it into something less animalistic in a desperate attempt to make us seem more superior to the other life on our planet. She agrees. Alice says it's human nature to create things that don't exist just to make us believe our existence has meaning besides reproduction and destruction, and that we're all just bullshitting ourselves until we eventually die of old age or insanity. I say that I've never heard anything more true, and I think to myself that I wish it wasn't that way.

Pretty soon she and I are pressed up against Igneel's bath tub making out intensely.

She tastes like ash and cherry coke, and she smells like an intoxicating mix of summer heat and apples. Under the bright bathroom light, I see how light mint green her eyes are. It was hard to tell under the dim lighting, where everything looked dull and glowed orange. She's very pretty, really—nearly mirroring my height at about 5'8, with a very slim frame, more like Levy's than Cana's or Lucy's—and everything about her screams to be my taste, but she reminds me of me—she kisses me desperately, like she's seeking the validation of my wanting her. But two people who don't believe in love can only be each other's oxygen for so long. And even if I don't believe in love doesn't mean I don't long for it. I lust for the purest form of lust there is, even if it can't be fulfilled. It's human nature to long for things that don't exist, because we've created them for a reason—to feel good.

We pull away when an annoyed knock at the door distracts us. "Hurry the fuck up will you, I gotta piss."

I light up a cigarette outside by the pool, and Alice returns to her friend and drinks her cherry coke. And that's that. And that's all there is to it. There's nothing more than heated moments of wanting in bathrooms, between sweaty, clashing bodies. There's nothing more to do than memorize the taste of heavy breaths while your tongue runs over another human being's lips, and analyze the scent of another body while the lust is still there, and then you move on. You find another flavor to like.

I make eye contact with Cana across the way, where a drunken Sting Eucliffe tries to wrap his arm around her. Beside him, Natsu kisses Lucy's ear, clearly trying to keep his annoyed gaze off of the other pair. He looks almost hurt, but I brush it off. Yes, he was my best friend, and I was his, but it's been years, and I don't know if I can still pick up on those things. Cana's eyes say to help her out, and I shuffle closer, dropping my stub of a smoke on the pavement, leaving the paper and ash to crumple into the flame.

"Look, will you just leave me alone?" I can hear Cana now, and I can just barely hear Sting's voice drip stickily into my ears, hot and breathy.

"C'mon babe, just go with it."

"I'm _not_ into you, so just _piss off_."

Before he can talk again, I'm there, so pissed off I can barely breathe properly.

"Hey, dickwad, just go with this."

I punch him in the face. He falls to the ground, and I wrap a protective arm around Cana's shoulders, grabbing Loke away from his flirting and pulling him away.

I can hear Natsu yell "what the _fuck_ , man?" behind me.

I drop Cana and Loke off then make the slow drive home. Cana has already moved on from Sting's unwanted flirting. That's just the way she is.

That's all there is to life and love—heated moments of wanting in bathrooms and poolsides, between sweaty, clashing bodies. That's all there is to love—lust and rejection.

 **unedited**

 **a/n i'm sorry if that chapter was a bit heavy, but i don't know, my hands kind of took over from my mind and that's what happened. It was a bit like a cliché movie moment, but I'm okay with it just this once I guess. the thing with sting is setting up plot. not with cana though, but with lucy and natsu and gray.**

 **it's not graylu vs nalu so don't worry**

 **-c.v.**


	15. Part 3: Exhaust

**I do not own Fairy Tail or any characters involved with the original work.**

 **unedited**

 **CAGED**

 **16/17 YEARS OLD (2014/2015)**

 ** _Part 3: exhaust_**

A COUPLE WEEKS later I find Lucy leaned against my truck after school. The summer heat is completely gone, replaced with the calming chill of autumn. The base of leaves are beginning to turn yellow, and the air is so fresh and cold it burns my lungs to breathe more than menthol cigarettes. Lucy has stopped wearing tank tops for the fall season, but instead is in a dark blue miniskirt, her black knee high boots, gray leggings, and a white turtleneck under her jean jacket. Her hair is tied into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, eyes makeup free, but bright, rosy red lipstick slathered onto her mouth. Her nose is red tipped and she sniffs as she looks around the parking lot, arms crossed under her chest.

I shuffle over to the car lazily, leaned back in my posture with one hand in my jacket pocket and the other holding my case of paintbrushes and paint. Breath curls from my mouth in front of me like mock smoke, disappearing into the air as I walk through the lot. I raise an eyebrow at Lucy, trying to ignore the way her big brown eyes send flutters down my spine even after years of speaking.

She makes eye contact with me, a small, sad smile on her face. She runs a pale hand through her hair, the air leaves from her red-painted lips and through the intense color I'm reminded of Alice, but Alice is cynical, and Lucy isn't, and they're nothing alike really.

"Hey."

"Hi?"

Lucy sighs, tilting her head back and blinking up at the puffy clouds. "Do you wanna go get some coffee?"

I unlock the truck's door, tossing my book bag and case of art supplies into the back. "What about your boyfriend?"

"What about him? It's cold, I want coffee, Natsu's at practice, you have a cool truck and it's been years since we've spoken."

"I think there's a reason for that."

"Please?" She sends a pleading gaze my way. Her eyes are wide and sad, dripping with a sorrowed, distant expression.

 _My Mind: You can't exactly leave her in the cold._

 _Me (also in my mind): She dropped me in a heartbeat after Natsu decided he was done._

 _My Mind: You would've done the exact same thing to yourself._

 _Me: You… shut up._

 _My Mind: My point is proven._

I sigh, pulling out my last smoke.

"Fine, but you owe me a new pack of cigarettes."

Lucy climbs into my car, she produces a brand new pack of cigarettes, and flashes me a smile. "It may have been a while since we've spoken, but I still pick up on things. I expected this."

WHEN LUCY GOES to sit outside with her coffee, I'm confused. Between cranking up the heat in my car to full blast (which just about killed me) and _still_ complaining about being cold, I wasn't expecting to have her snub the warmth of Starbucks to sit on the dirty hood of my car. She chides my choice of iced coffee though, saying how it was too cold for such a beverage.

"If it's too cold for iced coffee then why are we sitting outside?"

"I bought you a pack of cigarettes for this occasion, I may as well let you actually smoke them. You're not allowed to inside."

"Well said."

It's awkwardly silent for a few minutes, and I pay close attention to my surroundings. The elementary schools are just getting out, and there are yellowy buses streaming up and down the roads, leaving exhaust fume clouds lingering the air. I take a drag of my cigarette, ignoring the families obviously trying to avoid breathing in the fumes, shaking their heads at me as they steer their children away. It's funny how much parents disapprove of cigarettes when vehicles they depend on are constantly trickling toxins into the air.

Lucy slides off the hood of the car, dusting off the back of her skirt with her hands and holding a hand out for my beverage before stalking off to the garbage can. As we get in the car I try to strike up conversation, but it doesn't really work out until I bring up her old self's passion.

"Are you still writing?"

She smiles to herself, eyes losing their sad edges as they glow with pride and passion. As I listen to her speak with child-like fascination and wonder beaming in chocolate pools, I feel my own heart swell with pride for her. Her phrases gush from her mouth, yet they fall so perfectly it's clear she's a writer, and I find myself distracted by buried feelings created in my even younger adolescence.

She pauses briefly, tilting her head back to pour the last of her cooling beverage out of the cup, and I watch as the thin trickle dies out into a few drops and then disappears altogether. There's a smudge of red lipstick on the lid of the cup when she draws back, and she wipes a small bit off onto her hand as she wipes coffee off her lips. She offers to take mine to the trash, and although it's only half empty, I let her.

I've never been one for coffee anyway.

I ALWAYS KNEW Lucy was rich. (It's hard not to given her expensive car, lavish clothes and sophisticated aura. Something always told me she'd be more successful than me in the long run. Then again, who wouldn't?) I never quite processed however, that like the majority of rich people, she too probably had an extremely large, almost ostentatious mansion. It was a pristine white, and even though my father could be considered a rather successful banker, he still didn't come close to having the income necessary to sustain a home like this, even if it was his dream.

My father would be quivering if he saw their home—a pristine white building with lots of pillars and rich green hedges the bottom of the house.

The inside does nothing to help the wounded confidence that came with living in a dusty townhouse. But I suppose my humble abode is more of a home, and Lucy's is more of a house. Ur did all the decorations, casting the rooms with a gentle blue and dark brown theme to it, while everything in Lucy's home is stark brown and white. Nothing is out of place and everything _had_ a place.

I still feel like an idiot standing in the center of her entryway, clad in an overgrown, worn green flannel and gazing in wonder at the high ceilings and extravagant decorations. A crystalline chandelier hangs above my head with sleek silver arms and crisp white light. I suddenly become acutely aware of the dirt clinging to my converse and the mysterious stains my clothes have somehow acquired.

I glance behind me every few feet as she leads me through the winding maze of her house, making sure no footprints are left on the white carpeting or the polished brown floor. Lucy seems unconcerned, however, heeled boots clacking on the sleek wooden panels as she pads upstairs and towards a pair of sophisticated double doors tucked away safely at the end of the wide hallway.

Her room is far bigger than mine, with warm pink walls and a creamy white trim. Everything is cleaned to perfection, and I'm fairly certain if I ran a finger along every surface, I wouldn't find even a speck of dust. She drops her backpack on the ground and I find myself staring at it, willing her to move it so yet again nothing is out of place. My fingertips itch to move it into the corner, but it isn't my room. So instead I stand awkwardly in the doorway until Lucy drops back onto her bed and pats the comforter next to her, inviting me to join her.

The bed was soft. It wasn't springy like the one in my room. Lucy ran a hand through her golden blonde hair, before moving her fingers to her face, rubbing at her eyes with a tired sort of vibe.

"Play me the band."

"The band?"

"The band. I don't remember what they're called. You said you'd play them for me. In middle school. And you never got the chance to. I wasn't too interested at the time, to be honest. But now I am. And you're here. So play it."

Ah, Taking Back Sunday. Of course. I feel rather stupid to not have figured out, having pined over my friends and Lucy and Nothing at All for ages after that pouring day I fucked up so endlessly I lost all my friends.

I play Nothing at All. There's no other song produced by this band that gives me the feelings this song does. There's nothing symbolic and memory ridden with them.

As the song plays, I watch Lucy for signs of disinterest, but her eyes remain trained on the ceiling, and there's a small glimmer to them. Very slight, but very noticeable in dark irises.

When the song ends, she speaks.

"Natsu broke up with me."

I look at her, shocked.

"So what? I'm your rebound friend?"

We both sound exhausted. By what exactly I don't think I'll ever figure out.

"Does it matter?"

"Not particularly."

I return my gaze to the ceiling, and the silence blows through my ears like exhaust fumes through air.

 **a/n i hope this was okay.**

 **i actually worked on it for quite some time, obviously, but it just wouldn't turn out quite the way i wanted it to.**

 **i hope it was alright regardless, and i suppose it's better than some of the stuff on this site.**

 **hopefully next update will be sooner.**

 **have a lovely day.**

 **-c.v.**


	16. Part 3: Half-lit

**disclaimer: I do not own Fairy Tail or any of the characters involved in the original story-just the one's I have created**

 **as always:** ** _UNEDITED_**

 **CAGED**

 **16/17 YEARS OLD (2014/2015)**

 ** _Part 3:_** _Half-lit_

THE SPEED LUCY displays as she forces herself back into my life is startling. What started out as the occasional coffee and lament about life turns quickly into some kind of strange, rickety friendship based on a range of muted negative emotions. It's a bit harrowing to watch, actually. Afternoons formerly spent smoking cigarettes under rainy skies in my truck are more frequently beginning to be spent with the blonde bombshell that is Lucy Heartfilia.

There are many ways I could go over the sensation of Lucy in my mind, but no matter what way I look at it, it's begins more and more clear that something is beginning to change inside of me. The inspiration sparks, the gray images get a bit more color, and the feelings and sentiments I basked in daily shift, taking my whole world with it on its cracking path. And it's terrifying. I try to detach myself from situations as frequently as possible, but her bubbly personality is beginning to drag me under, filling my senses with overwhelming situations of color and joy.

The most terrifying change is my outlook towards Lucy herself. After two years of training myself to be indifferent towards her and all my old friends, I find myself falling into old feelings of my 14-year-old self, and her presence sends tiny palpitations through my chest unlike anything I've experienced. Despite previous brief romantic relationships and strong feelings of attraction and fascination in my past life, I've never quite yearned for the attention of someone far as much as I do Lucy.

Lucy has very pretty blonde hair and dark brown eyes. I know I've established this before, but after so long I kind of forgot. Plus, everything in Virginia seems to appear washed out and milky in color—it's quite like Canada in those regards. But there are certain places times of day when it's quite easy to tell these things.

I've gotten off track, though. My English teacher says I have a tendency to do that. I've been asked to write more clearly. I wonder if Lucy ever has been asked that. I doubt it. She's very talented.

She seems to be present in my mind always. At times I'll watch Juvia and Lyon and wonder if she and I will ever have that. I really, really hope we do.

I've done some strange things since she and I began to speak again. I go to a few football games, even though Cana and Loke sometimes have other people to watch with and I have to sit alone. I rather like it, actually. Sometimes I look for Lucy in the crowd, but other times I don't. Some games—rather like the one I'm about to discuss, actually—I watch Natsu and Gajeel and everyone who I used to even somewhat be friends with as they play football.

Tonight, Loke is watching the game intently, yelling out things to his friends on the team and encouraging all the players when they do something good (and cursing under his breath when they fuck up). Cana tends to fiddle around with her tarot cards or wanders off to have short conversations with boys who are into her or the female friends like Lucy and Erza that she hangs out with frequently. I don't quite understand football. I watch it more to watch the behaviors of my former friends, and wonder how thing's might've gone different. Part of me feels like if Ur hadn't died, perhaps my life would've taken a different course—one that let me participate in sports and parties and other things my peers tend to enjoy. But I don't blame her for dying. Because if I blamed her for dying, I'd have to blame my dad for getting mad at me and prompting her to drive me home, and then I'd have to blame myself for angering him, and I'd have to blame Natsu and Lisanna for encouraging me to choose a last name for my name tag. Although I sometimes do go down that path of doubt and blame, even I try not to focus on them too hard. Besides, I quite enjoy quiet nights of smoking pot in Cana's basement with some ambient music playing softly in the background. I've gotten off topic again.

I watch Natsu the most, overall. He seems mostly normal, but I still wonder how he is. I wonder if he's still mad at me for punching Sting. It's rather hard to tell, considering he never talked to me even before that, but he never seems to talk to Sting himself much anymore, and I sometimes wonder which one of us he was actually mad at. Probably me. I don't see why it wouldn't be me.

Sometimes I like to wonder if Natsu feels like I do. If he feels the detached feeling of lost friendship even after years have passed. I don't know if he can, given how many other friends he has, but sometimes it's nice to ponder.

Regardless of the possibility of non-mirrored images and intentions, I choose to watch Natsu at the games as though we're still close. I like to cheer for him as though we weren't the product of a ruined friendship.

I sweep my gaze over the crowd of spectators, looking to see if Lucy is still there and if perhaps she's looking to beckon me over. I spot her, eventually. She's oblivious to me. I doubt she even cares if I'm there. I don't dare approach her unless approached. She has her own life and it very rarely includes me.

The stadium lights wash everything out under their fluorescent glow, making everything appear muted. Secondary in the only world they know.

A roar from the crowd draws my attention back to the field, made of matted grass and fading yard lines. Something good has happened for Fairy Tail High, but for what I'm not exactly sure.

His voice snags my attention first. Igneel's voice is always loud and cheerful, excited in a way that distinguishes him clearly as Natsu's father. The similarities between Igneel and Natsu are amazing. I wonder if my birth dad and I are anything like. I have his genetics, but perhaps our upbringings have created totally different stories. I don't remember my father or my mother. In quiet moments and loud moments alike, there are times when the world around me fades out, and I try to snag a glimpse of a memory that probably doesn't exist. It typically happens in moments like this, when I watch a father cheer for his son after doing something amazing, or when I watch a mother run a hand through her child's hair in the food court of a shopping mall.

Over the years Natsu and I were friends, the man became like a third father to me (or perhaps a second, since my first one never really was my dad). Sometimes at Natsu's house I could pretend the encouraging slaps on the shoulder from Igneel were from my dad, and that the sweet hugs I received upon walking through the door were from my mom, instead of Mrs. Dragneel. It was far easier to pretend it was the voices and touches of my birth parents, but that never stopped me from trying to imagine Jacob and Ur in those happy moments of family. On Saturday and Sunday mornings, if I tried hard enough (if I kept my eyes closed for just a moment longer, pretended to sleep for even a second—if I focused with just the right intensity) I could make-believe that the warm, jovial voice of Igneel belonged to my father, and that Natsu's mother was my own. There were even times I could convince myself that Zeref was Lyon. I could pretend they were childhood memories—when joy still seemed to exist.

I think that's why our friendship didn't work—I took too many liberties.

I decide to make my way to sit by Igneel, feeling the ever-present dysphoria of lost relationships get pushed to the side by a lingering childhood fantasy. It takes him a few moments to notice me; his eyes are glued to the field in the final moments of the football game. The rustling of his jacket as he shifts in his seat signals his attention.

"Gray, is that you?"

I offer a smile as I take in his familiar face—the crinkles in the corner of his eyes as he grins at me, the tan nose perched slightly upwards.

I wait and smile as he and the rest of the crowd stand up, roaring as a particularly good plays been made, and I stand as well, clapping at Natsu with a smile on my face, even though I know I'm just lost in a crowd of fans.

As we sit back down, Igneel speaks again.

"I haven't seen you in so long, son!" Son. My own dad calls me son sometimes. It's hard not to mistake such a warm man for a paternal figure, especially when you've spent your life being tossed between a family you've never known and a family you technically shouldn't, but I try not to make excuses for myself. I don't deserve them in the case of the Natsu situation. And that's okay. I find that the truth is sometimes easier to accept.

"Yea, I'm sure you know about what happened." To my surprise, he looks bemused.

"What happened?"

"Natsu and I had a falling out in eighth grade."

Igneel looks shocked, oddly enough.

"You did?"

He stands and cheers as the buzzer signaling the end of the game goes off.

"I never would've guessed," he continued. "Natsu still talks about you quite a bit—and I've never heard anything negative."

"Does… Does Natsu miss me?"

"Of course."

He claps my shoulder, tells me he should get going to go meet Natsu by the locker room, and then he's gone. A brief interaction with a lot of meaning.

I find myself staring into the stadium lights, watching the flickering luminescent bulbs with wide eyes as I strain to see small nighttime bugs fly across the light's path. They're too microscopic to be seen from this location, but I watch anyway. Watch, wander, hope…

"Gray?"

I look away from the luminosities, the ghost of their touch flickering, painted into my vision. Through the blue-purple haze I can make out Lucy, the bright lights surrounding her turning her face into a caricature of shadows and sharp angles.

"Yea?"

"You okay? Like everyone has left the stands and you're just staring at God-knows-what."

"I'm fine. Great, even." I shake my head to clear the thoughts bouncing around my head but instead I just feel rattled. My dad used to shake my head sometimes, and it'd leave me with the same dazed feeling, just perhaps a bit stronger.

"So can I have a ride?"

Snap my head to Lucy once again.

"Huh?"

She huffs, annoyed as she sweeps some stray strands of sun-kissed hair behind her ear.

"I _said_ , can I have a ride?"

"Oh, uh, sure. I typically get some food after the game though, if you wanna come with me…"

Lucy smiles at me a bit coyly.

"Gray Fullbuster, are you asking me out?"

Am I? I've never really asked anyone out before. I've kissed girls before. They were all as pretty as Lucy but they lacked the special tang of something you've chased for ages that she has. I almost find myself zoning out, focusing on the way she seems into fade into the scenery around her (they both seem almost painted on), but I manage to shake it off.

"I guess maybe I am."

SOMETHING ABOUT THE way Lucy looks whilst going about her daily business entrances me. There's a sort of elegance and beauty to everything about her—her appearance, her voice, the words she uses and the order in which she uses them. Nothing has ever quite mirrored the emotions I feel for the blonde ahead of me.

We sit in the diner I go to on my birthdays and I watch her as she takes a slow sip of her strawberry milkshake and wipes away the condensation that moves from the straw to her lips.

The lights are a strange concoction of blinding brightness and something akin to flickering candlelight that makes me feel like I'm living out a moment frozen in time on in an old polaroid or film strip. The place is mostly empty, silent in all means besides a whisper of conversation scattered here and there. I feel comfortable around Lucy in this diner though, and my heart swells a bit as I let the rest of the world stay faded and draw her back into my line of focused vision. I study each detail of her face, capturing it and savoring it to pour into a painting later.

Everything about her seems subtle and calming in this light, yet overall radiant. Her hair catches the light and glimmers like sunshine, and her brown eyes have small flecks of gold in them that gleam when she smiles. How have I never noticed this before?

"I don't think I've ever been on such a silent date before."

I think she catches my panicked expression because she gives a gentle, warm smile. "Don't worry, I like it."

It's drizzling when Lucy and I get into the car, and before I can start to drive the slow trickle of water speeds up and pours down the windshield of my truck in thick rivulets.

 _By the time we get through the drive-thru, the rain is splattering against the windshield so intensely, Lyon simply pulls into a parking spot and leaves the windshield wipers on high. I lean against the window and watch raindrops trickle down glass, pounding against the car with a vehement force that shakes the trees and rattles the outside world in its tracks. The rain is a typhoon of water that seems to wobble the entire universe when in reality, it is only in our pocket of the universe._

Lucy turns the radio on and pulls me out of my memory. "Let's wait out the rain, okay?"

I nod, pulling out my cigarettes and motioning to them to make sure it was okay. When Lucy offers her acceptance I pull the lighter out and watch as the orange flame licks the tip of the paper, igniting the ash and the chemicals within it. The drizzling of smoke into my lungs calms whatever nerves remain from my initial fear over my first proper date.

"Those'll give you lung cancer, Gray."

"So will secondhand smoke."

"Touché."

"Besides, hopefully I'll already be dead before that happens."

A couple more drags and Lucy holds out a hand and asks for the cigarette.

"I thought smoking gives you lung cancer, Lucy."

"It does. But so does secondhand smoke, Gray."

I watch her take a drag from my cigarette. It seems so unnatural for her, but it suits her in a way. Lucy coughs after a deep inhale, and her blonde hair shakes with the force of her lung's defiance.

"Don't breathe so deep. It's not weed, you don't need to draw it deep into your lungs. Just start slow and loosen up. You'll get used to it."

She heeds my advice, and pretty soon all that's left of her previous discomfort is the occasional small cough rolling from her lips as the smoke curls around her in a hazy halo.

"Play me that Taking Back Sunday song again." Her voice is barely above a whisper and my mind flickers to memories of Alice from the party. "I liked it."

We lean our seats back as ambient guitar rings throughout the car, breathing out small puffs of smoke as we shift closer to each other, Lucy's head resting in the crook of my neck. I watch the stars out the window, watch the way milky clouds drift across their luminous shimmer and the way the dark sky both swallows them and accentuates their beauty. I try and draw myself into the moment, remember the emotions that blossom within my body, embrace the feeling of sunny strands of silky hair tickling the pale skin on my neck. I try to internalize the feeling of a shared cigarette, and thin, tan fingers curled against mine.

I distantly wonder if hand feels soft like Lucy's, or calloused like Natsu's always had.

After I drop Lucy off, I don't make it home until about 1 am. No one is awake. The house is quiet.

I immediately try to paint an image recreating Lucy in the diner. It'll never be quite as perfect as her radiant beauty in person, but the paint on the canvas mirrors the disconnected feeling I sometimes get from the world around me, and the feelings of tepid joy that still remain in my body are enough to keep me proud of the painting.

I haven't worn my cross necklace since Mom died, but tonight it doesn't scare me so much, and I allow myself to slip it around my neck.

I light a joint and lay back in my bed, listening to my favorite song as I smoke it. I watch the stars out the window and imagine the feeling of golden hair against my skin. I wrap a hand around my necklace, and as it heats up, I pretend to still feel the warmth of Lucy's hand in mine, and the feeling that spreads over my chest is overwhelmingly calm.

I drift asleep with the half-lit joint still stuck in between my fingers, and watch as the sharp starlight blurs before fading into a void obscured by shut eyelids.

It's such a starry night.

 **a/n i hope you enjoyed the chapter :))**

 **-c.v.**


	17. Part 3: Whisper

**(KIND OF) important note: when i originally wrote the chapter** ** _cigarette smoke and cherry coke_** **chapter, i had changed gray's height from what it says on google (5'9), to a taller height (5'11) but have since changed my mind and made him 5'9 as it says online**

 **disclaimer: I don't own Fairy Tail or any of the original characters created by hiro mashima**

 **as always: unedited**

 **CAGED**

 **16/17 YEARS OLD (2O14/15)**

 ** _Part 3: Whisper_**

THE PAINT IS thick, dark, almost smothering. Hunched over my creation, mulling over the opague overlapping of ostentatious strokes, I try to ignore the growing crick in my neck and the aching of my back. I glance around the art classroom, watching the slow workers try desperately to finish their work by the end of class, watch quick workers as they near the end of their self-portrait.

I find it quite strange to paint myself. People aren't the problem (I paint Lucy all the time now, and sometimes Natsu slips into my artwork as well), but something about watching an even more fraudulent version of myself is disconcerting. I can't tell if painting me is better or worse at hiding the secrets of his life than me.

I glance down at my own work. Something isn't quite right with it, but I attempt not to think about the way painting me's eyes stare at me as I load up my paintbrush with an obnoxious amount of paint, repeating the cycle every stroke or two. _Dip, paint, paint, analyze, ignore, dip._ Over and over again until a monotonous buzzing of a headache throbs throughout my skull, adding immense pressure to my scar and brain alike. I'm unsure if the bright classroom lights allowing one to study their painting in extreme detail is a good thing or not. On one hand, we can be critical, on the other hand, the fluorescent white touch is extremely distracting. I sit up straighter, crack my back and rub a hand against my neck, startled by the familiar weight of my necklace unworn for years.

Loke sits across from me, brow furrowed in concentration as he works on his painting. It appears to be a bit of a hyped up version of himself, but then again, so does everyone's. He has a smudge of golden paint on his hand and—holy shit why does his painted hair look like a damn lion's mane? Why am I just now noticing him?

I don't think I'll ever understand Loke. I don't think I really want to, to be honest.

 _Lyon often says Sherry is the hottest girl in school because she wears a blouse that's two sizes too small and has tits bigger than most of the teachers already. He says I'll understand when I'm older. I'm not sure I want to._

"Gray?"

I look up, glance behind my shoulder to where my teacher stands.

"Are you alright, sweetie?" I nod, and she seems satisfied. "Well, please continue working."

I barely begin working again when Loke tosses a paintbrush, dripping with the saturation of orange paint, seeping onto the table in a small puddle like some kind of thin marmalade.

"Dude, can you wash that brush off for me? Watercolor dries super fucking fast, and my grade can't afford sloppy blending." I don't use watercolors. Too light and inconsistent in color. I like to have control over the colors I use. I enjoy mixing acrylics until I get just the right hue—just the right shade of drearily deep green, just the right shade of lightly lackluster blue.

I shuffle to the sink, paintbrush threatening to spill out more paint with each step. It's far different in this art class than it was in middle school—everyone is much more serious and quiet about their work. The rushing sink water and the clinking of paintbrushes against jars of water are the only clear sounds, but if I focus clear enough I can hear the whispering scrape of old paintbrushes, some rusted at the handle, against canvas. And as I wash the color out of Loke's brush, I advert my attention and watch it swirl down the sink, into the drain. Over splotches of color staining the deep metal surface. Cover the stains and imperfections for just a moment with its opaque burnt orange, until the bulk of it is gone and in its place is a tenuous tangerine blood dripping down the walls of the sink in slow coils of color.

I blink suddenly, tossing the paintbrush onto the counter as I pour the dirty paint water into the sink, a sickening brown marring the sunset ablaze in the sink. I place a pale hand in the steady stream of crystalline water, letting it run through my fingers for just a moment before I toss it around the sink, washing any remnants of Loke's watercolors away, never to be seen again.

The paintbrush and jar of water are still dripping slightly as I make my way back to the table, and I guess I didn't clean the brush as well as I thought, because an excruciatingly light orange droplet falls onto my shoe, seeping into the fabric. I don't feel it on my skin, and it should be quite easy to ignore, but as I continue painting, my mind flickers back to the color on my shoes, and I feel my foot begin to tap in some form of weak distraction.

As I continue my endless cycle of black paint filling in sketch-lines of hair ( _dip, paint, paint, analyze, ignore, dip),_ I wonder somewhere in the back crevices of my mind if this whole room is just some painting. A bored kid's art project or an old art enthusiast's greatest masterpiece. I wonder if the whole milky inconsistency of my relationships is because he paints with watercolors. I never did care for watercolors…

I finish my work in a nick of time, and I try to ignore the mistakes staring me in the eye with a glaring glint as I set the painting to work by the window to dry. Under the sunlight, I can see the lines where paint overlaps, and I try to convince myself that it's okay. It's an art style… A statement… But it feels like a lie to my brain, so instead I just close my eyes and try not to think about it, instead I focus on the way I tilt back on my heels, teeter for a moment and then align myself again.

I begin to make my way towards my backpack, and haphazardly shove all my items into the big space before the bell rings. I don't like getting caught in the crowd of sad, hormonal teenagers. Looking at their expressions and trying to read unreadable words is sobering.

Before I can escape out the door however, my teacher calls me over. She standing by the rack of drying artwork, sunlight hitting her dark curly hair and seemingly illuminating her chocolate brown skin. I walk over to her, painfully aware of my feet dragging against the tile. No one in my family ever enjoyed listening to me grind my feet.

"This piece is really quite good, Gray. The style you used is very interesting."

"Thank you."

The bell rings somewhere in the distance.

"I think you have some real potential. My friend, actually, owns an art gallery in downtown Magnolia. She hosts a lot of art showcases down there and she's always looking for fresh new art pieces to exploit." She chuckles a bit, and I wonder if it's because she finds the antics of her art-zealous friend to be interesting. My friends used to chuckle at my behavior. "If you'd like, I'd love to show her some of your work. I truly think your style is just the type of work she's looking for. It's very reminiscent of some old painters, yet some kind of rarity. Not many people paint with such thick, passionate paint strokes."

I thank her again, and hope to myself I'm not too repetitive.

Her very being is a little lost to me, despite sitting right in front of my line of vision. I flutter my eyelids for a moment, watch the flick of dark lashes until her form focuses a bit more. I thank her for the opportunity, and accept her offer graciously.

"Don't tell the other students, though. I don't want them to think I'm playing favorites." She gives me a joking wink, then turns, claps her hands and begins to address the class of bored students who chose art simply for a free elective. I don't remember them entering the classroom.

I make brief eye contact with Natsu on my way out the door, and his dark eyes flash with unreadable emotion.

The hallway is empty when I enter it, abandoned and desolate as my footsteps echo against linoleum. There's no point in going to class now. I wouldn't be able to focus much, to be honest. I never am. Instead, I wander off to a bathroom and begin washing dried acrylics off my hands, and then I make my way to the parking lot through a side door exit.

The breeze is cool against my skin, and the rustling of trees lining the parking lot is the only real noise besides the occasional chirping bird or passing car. I sit in my car, and allow myself to smile at the opportunity Ms. Johnston gave me. It's not clear cut, but for once, I manage to ignore the potential negative.

As I drift asleep in my car, I think about the possibilities.

Who knows, maybe my dad will take my art seriously now.

And if not, maybe I'll hit it big regardless, and I'll be able to afford to run away. Become a recluse artist who only makes appearances at his own art shows, with a thick fur coat and a strange vibe. Maybe I'll escape to another state.

Perhaps I'll go to Oregon. The northern Pacific sea is something I'd like to see.

Oregon sounds nice to me.

MY FATHER LUCKILY—or unluckily, depending on how you see it—is thrilled when I give him the news of my potential art show feature. Lyon claps my shoulder in encouragement. It's actually kind of refreshing, in a strange way, even if I can't shake the feeling it's as fake as his house party persona.

"Wait until the Pete and Pamela Evans hear this. Pamela never liked the arts. Said they were useless. I always said, 'well, what do you know, Pam? My boy's gonna be an artist, just you wait.' And I was _right_. I knew I would be. Who knew doodling could pay off so well? You wanna know who? I'll tell you who. _Me._ I figured I'd ruffle up your feathers a bit, get you prepared for the real world in case it didn't work out, but deep down I always thought 'this boy's gonna be an artist.' Does your sister know about this yet? Oh, I cannot _wait_ to call her—oh of course, it's Gray's news, I know Charlotte, don't worry. So I'm excited, so what?" He turns back to me again. "All our friends are gonna want work commissioned after this, but they better line up fast, because before you know it all the big-shot agents are gonna be praying just to work with you, son."

"Well it's not really a sure thing, yet…"

"But you're confident it will be, right?"

"I mean, I guess."

"Of course it will. You're a Milkovich, my boy!"

He raises his glass of wine as a silent toast before tilting his head back and allowing the olive brown substance to pour down his throat.

"I'm gonna get the boy a glass. He deserves to celebrate a little, right?" My dad nudges me in the ribs, a grin forming on his features, and I feel myself relax a little.

"Congratulations, sweetie," Charlotte says with a sweet smile, and I find myself wishing she wouldn't address me in such a maternal manor, but I ignore it as my dad bustles back in, speaking a mile a minute as I watch the drizzle of wine pour into the bottom of the glass and climb slowly upwards.

"I knew I did something right raising you. People may try to discredit me and your mom, but all it is a fight between nature and nurture, and I think it's pretty clear who had the biggest hand in this little talent of yours. Genetics really can only go so far. Your mom and I encouraged you—" Did he really? "And that's why you're gonna succeed.

"I really hope this thing works out," my dad slips in subtly. "I worry about how you're gonna get along in the real world after the accident. The dyslexia's a real setback, I know. So hopefully this works out, I want you to be able to depend on yourself in the real world, Grayson." I don't really know how to reply to that. "I'm gonna call your grandparents, right now." Such a whirlwind of activity. My father confuses me.

He heads into the other room and returns with the phone. I pour the rest of the wine down my throat and listen vaguely as my dad speaks to one of my grandparents, though I'm unsure which one. Probably his own. Always his own first. I suppose that's understandable.

My headache from art class earlier returns as he speaks quickly and loudly, and the quiet buzz of pain and dizziness increases slowly.

I fold my arms on the table and rest my head in the crook of an elbow, stare at the flame of a candle flickering in the soft breeze drifting through a cracked window, watch its golden touch set a mix of sunset glow and thick shadows as my dad's loud voice whispers faintly through my head.

"Who would've thought, right? My son the artist."

My son the artist.

 **a/n can you guys please let me know in the reviews if this story is still going okay? obviously, i write it because i enjoy it, not just for reviews, but traffic to the story has slowed lately and i want to make sure i edit my work accordingly so my readers actually enjoy it.**

 **not the best chapter, but it was alright. i felt like i was kind of pushing gray's relationship with his adoptive father under the rug as he aged. it was such a pivotal part of the first couple chapters, and just kinda slipped away with time. i don't want his dad to be viewed as just this horrible person who borderline abused a young gray. there's more to everyone, and i think i need to capture that. life's too short not to get to know a person.**

 **i hope you enjoyed. have a lovely day/evening.**

 **-c.v.**


	18. Part 3: Disoriented

**disclaimer: I don't own FT**

 **unedited**

 **CAGED**

 **AGES 16-17 (2014/2015)**

 ** _Part 3: Disoriented_**

THE LATE NOVEMBER breeze rocks the hammock with a chilling grasp, sending us swaying back and forth. Lucy's heartbeat echoes through my ears as I rest my head on her ribcage, just high enough to hear the soothing thump of her life force.

 _The rhythmic thumping of Lyon's baseball against his mitt as he tosses it in the air and catches and the strumming latching onto the bedroom walls with its echoing pulse is the lullaby that sends me to sleep each and every night._

 _Strum, thump, strum…_

My head turns slightly as I sit up, a feeble shake of the brain to move away the memory. The hammock shakes, threatens to tip over, but it steadies itself as Lucy and I both rest a hand on each side. A strand of hair falls in front of my face. It tickles the tip of my nose, spills irritation across my skin, but I can't bring myself to move it. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the memory to fade, hoping for the hair to slide away or the feeling it brings to simply cease.

"You okay?"

I glance down slightly, looking at Lucy's soft features. She's lifted her head off the pillow, gazing up at me from over her chest with a puzzled expression, eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed. I nod a bit, another shake of the head.

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I feel very disoriented. That's a very normal thing, obviously, but when sometimes when I get this way I can't shake it. I don't know if that's as normal. I find it very hard to function on days like these. It makes everything seem like a dream. Just a dream.

I don't know why I think about these things, but occasionally I find it very hard to think about anything other than that. I grasp at anything and everything that can make it go away. It's a moment like that right now, and I wish it wasn't. Lucy and I's relationship—whatever that is exactly—is still mostly under the wraps. I think Cana and Loke know but only because they're friends with both me and Lucy. I'm not sure. Somewhere inside of me I feel like I should be annoyed with the secrecy, but I'm just glad to know Lucy's there. Sometimes it doesn't exactly feel real, but I live for the moments it does. I grasp at the soft brushes of hair on skin, the sparkle of chocolate eyes, the rosy sunburn that sometimes finds itself on her face. It's proof, in a way, that I'm loved and needed. I love that feeling.

I lay back down, avoiding Lucy's chest this time. I don't want to risk falling back into a daydream. My "dazes" haven't lessened over time.

 _The phone clicks off and I begin slowly shuffling home, the phone still open in my hand. Raindrops begin slowly littering the pavement, and the sun begins setting before I'm even home. At some point, Lyon's truck slows down beside me, and he and Juvia have me sit in between them._

 _I lean my head against the seat, eyes closed as Lyon talks to Charlotte on the phone, assuring that I'm okay but in 'another daze' (since when have 'dazes' been an official thing for me?) and that he's going to drop Juvia off and then take me for food._

I blink. I hate zoning out around Lucy. Hate it.

She shifts herself so that her head rests on my chest, right on my heart. I wonder if she can hear my heartbeat. I wonder if she can feel it shake beneath her touch. I wonder if she even cares. She trails a finger up and down my forearm, and I shiver at the slight touch. Years of little affection have starved me, and overall I'm used to it—but when I _do_ feel the touch of another human it's like cold water trickling down the throat of someone so dehydrated they barely even felt the thirst. It's much better than wine.

Far, far better than an old, expensively aged wine pouring into my mouth with a warm burn like candlelight shaking in the breeze…

I stop, focus on my surroundings instead. I'm laid on a hammock in my backyard with Lucy. No one has used the hammock after the first few months after Charlotte bought it, but she has always insisted we keep it, and I'm glad we have it in this moment. The breeze lightly shakes the fabric we lay on and the fabric scrapes my skin a bit with every ever-so-slight movement of my body. Just a flicker of motion and a peppering of discomfort. Thick gray clouds mill around the sky, laying against the lightly lackluster blue of the atmosphere. The sun appears from behind a gray streak of condensation, and I stare into its bright light for a moment. It burns. _God,_ it burns, but I allow myself to feel the warmth of its touch for just a moment longer before I blink my eyes away. There is a bright purple blur in front of my vision and everything either gets bathed in the strange fuchsia or gets blurred around its edges. I think I read somewhere that blue eyes are more sensitive to light. I don't know how true that is though.

"I think I may go back to Canada for Christmas," I say suddenly, trying to distract Lucy's memory from my constant spacey-ness.

"Oh?"

"Yea. Charlotte wants to meet my dad's parents, maybe even Ur's. I think my dad's a little peeved he can't have a Christmas party, but it's okay in the end. I think he misses Canada too sometimes."

She's silent for a moment, and then blesses my ear drums with her angelic voice once again.

"Gray, what are we?"

"I don't know… People?"

"No, like, what are _we_? Together, I mean. Like, are we boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"Do you want to be?"

"Yea." Music to my ears. Sweeter than Eleanor Rigby and Nothing At All and all the acoustic ballads of loneliness that grace the world with their anguished cries of soft, supple sorrow.

"Then, yea. Me too." Play it cool. Don't scare her off. But, aloofness is what ended our friendship. Shit, what do I do?

She smiles and nods and her hair tickles against my chest. I run a hand through her hair, watching the light strands run across pale fingertips. My nerve endings spark with sensitive electricity for Lucy. Always. Her brown eyes are closed, and her own fingertips are playing around with a button on my jacket. Her own jacket is pink. It's faux-fur lining gets tangled in her hair, a mass of thin, tan pieces of plastic, and silky, golden strands of sunlight.

I close my eyes too as the first gentle drops of rain begin to fall. Despite the coolness of it's touch, neither me, nor Lucy make an attempt to move. I feel a tug at the chain around my neck and look down at Lucy to see her fingering the pendent of my necklace.

"I've never seen this before. When did you get it?"

"My mom gave it to me a few years back."

"Charlotte?" Deep down, something tells me if Lucy really knew much about me, she'd know that I don't really consider Charlotte my mother. I brush it aside.

"No. Ur."

"I never met her, did I?" Lucy speaks with a bit of a whisper to her honey-smooth voice, brown eyes flickering between the necklace and my face.

"No. I don't think you did."

"What was she like?"

"I don't know. You'd probably like her, though. She was… like strong-willed and stuff?"

"Oh. That's it?"

I don't like talking about Ur much. If I think about her I get lost in a swirl of memories and guilt and I'd really rather spend this time with Lucy _with_ Lucy, but she keeps pushing, asking.

And for some reason, I let her.

LATER IN THE evening, I find myself sitting on the floor of Eli Parker's at-home art studio. Over the years, I've found that Eli is one of the only people who truly understands me. I don't mean this in the whiny emo way, though, because somehow he and I have formed some kind of strange friendship of sorts.

I suppose my dad's fear a few years back of a potential drug deal of sorts was a bit justified ( _"_ _He just wants that sketch once I finish painting it. Calm down, it's not like I sold him marijuana."_ ). Only nowadays, _I'm_ the one who buys the marijuana off of _him_. As it turns out, Eli is something akin to a total high school stoner in an adult's body. I occasionally drop by his house to smoke and paint.

His house lit mostly by lights that cast a stark white glow across the planes and shadows of his walls and furniture and canvases splattered in rich colors. I stare into a light bulb, focusing on the filament inside of it, letting the snowy glow envelope me with its touch. When he reenters the room I tear my gaze away, look at him and try to avoid getting distracted by the purple ghost of the filament lingering in the center of my eyesight.

Eli sits down in front of me, a rolled joint on each of the plastic palettes he holds in his hands. He drags a bin of paints from the side of the room to sit beside us and hands me a canvas before dumping an outrageous amount of red acrylics into a space on his palette—though it is his paint, I suppose. If he wants to utilize extra I really can't stop him.

"So, what's up with you, man?"

"Not much. I don't know. It's Magnolia. Life is pretty mundane, ya know?"

"I feel that," he lights his joint and begins painting. Eli never sketches. I don't understand this man. "I haven't seen your friends in a while. That Loke kid was good at art. Cana, not so much, but I was really hoping for a fortune reading. You're still friends with them, right?"

"Yea. I just didn't want to bring them without your permission." His marble floor is cold underneath me, seeping into my jeans with a chill typical of November. Eli has such a nice house that it's quite hard to believe that a total weed-fiend inhabits it. However, the more time I spend with him, and the more stories I hear about famous artists and gallery owners he's met that share the same addiction, it becomes easier to grasp. Apparently many artists enjoy the creative edge drugs give them. Who knew?

"Don't worry about that. What's goin' on with that girl Lucy?"

"I think we're dating now."

"You think?"

"Well, we are. I really like her. I just get scared that she doesn't feel the same way."

He nods, deep into his painting. We fall into silence. The only noise being the inhaling of herbal smoke and the noise of paintbrushes against canvas as they lose their color, screeching as they demand to be recharged. A long time passes, and our blunts have long since burnt out when I begin to talk, mind hazy with the numbing kiss of the drug I spent 20 minutes gulping.

"I think I might need to break up with her."

Eli sputters, paintbrush splayed in between his fingers as he coughs into the side of his hand. I watch a drip of wet paint fall onto the white marble. It splatters and breaks apart, like a raindrop illuminated by sunset—colorful, but not kaleidoscope like a rainbow would create.

"The fuck? You just said how much you like her."

"Yea, but I watched the best marriages crumble throughout my times. To death, and cheating, and arguing. If I already fear she's going to abandon me, isn't it best I get out? That's unhealthy, right? Is it? I don't know, I've never done this before."

He shakes his head, standing up and laying out paintings on the table to dry.

"Life's too short to get hung up on this stuff, Gray. You gotta live it one day at a time. Baby steps."

"Neither of us are babies anymore, though, Eli."

"Yea, but do you really think any of us know any more about life than babies do? We're all just bullshitting our way through life. Parents, teachers, even government officials. We have no clue what the bigger picture is. All we can do is live our life until it ends. There's nothing else to life, in my opinion."

What a horribly sad viewpoint. It reminds me of my conversation with Alice. A conversation you wish desperately was untrue, but you can't help but see the validity of the statements you hear.

"If there's nothing else to life, why even bother with that?"

"Jesus _Christ_ , kid. Did you not just hear me? That's the _only_ purpose to life, you can't pass on the only reason you're here." He rubs his eyes, standing up and handing me my back. "You're seriously depressing, you know that? My home doesn't need those bad vibes right now. You should probably go, before your old man flips out. Tell him I'm looking forward to his Christmas party."

"Actually, Eli, we're probably going back to Canada for Christmas, so I don't think there will be a party. And I don't think I'll be here for a while."

He practically pushes me out the door, and for a moment I fear I've lost his companionship, but then he calls out the last word as I shuffle down his driveway.

"Then tell him I said merry Christmas, and not to keep you away too long. My studio doesn't get enough attention these days."

I smile as I climb into my truck. The cold November night air is deep and complex, but I roll down my windows regardless and let the frosty shower wash over me. It feels a bit like Canada. I almost convince myself that it'll be okay if I close my eyes for a moment and imagine the icy roads and frosty tree tops and pine tree smell, but I stop myself, barely.

Dazes are dangerous things, I've learned, so I pull over to the side of the road and compose some short message to my dad saying I may be late. My phone buzzes a few moments later, but I ignore it.

I lean on the steering wheel and close my eyes into my folded arms, listening to the drizzle of rain. Another message (or perhaps the same one. I never can remember if my phone buzzes twice or not) but I ignore that too.

When I open my eyes again, it's well after midnight. I have multiple texts from my dad, Lyon and Charlotte. Even Ultear sent one saying Dad asked her if she knew where I was.

Apparently I promised to be home within a few minutes after curfew.

I didn't remember.

I always did have a hard time using my head.

 **a/n**

 **that was kind of shitty, but hopefully okay. next chapter gray goes to canada for christmas. i have a pretty good plan for that one. it should be pretty long so hopefully it's good.**

 **i hope you enjoyed this one too, of course.**

 **please feed the creativity with reviews if you have time to spare. reviews are my marijuana lol**

 **-c.v.**


	19. Part 3: Canada, First Half

**disclaimer: i do not own fairy tail or any of the original characters involved, all i own is the plot and the oc characters**

 **UNEDITED**

 **CAGED**

 **16/17 YEARS OLD (2014/2015)**

 ** _Part 3: Canada, First Half_**

THE CAR RIDE up north is long. Brutal even. The detour to pick Ultear up from college didn't help, it simply took us off track. Meredy sits in the very back of the car, fiddling with her pigtail braids as the items stacked on the seats beside her quiver with the car's movements. She hasn't stopped talking since Ultear got in the car. I had no idea an eight-year-old could have so much to say. Ultear finds it endearing, but my father is getting visibly annoyed, and even she can't deny the tension welling up in the vehicle.

I'm sandwiched between Lyon and Ultear, arms crossed to preserve space, head tilted back to try and make my dull headache ebb away back into nothingness. It doesn't work. Instead my head rattles against the seat and despite the cushion, it simply augments the pain brewing in my caverns of my skull.

The trees pass by overhead, long braches hanging ever slightly into my line of sight through the corners of the sunroof in Charlotte's minivan. I close my eyes for some time, listen to cars rush by. I try to use their sound to fill in the gaps left by cut off eyesight. I imagine cars of white, black, red, yellow and more as they whiz past my car at a speed I can only guess. Their engines sputter with the dull roar engines, sewn together in a shaky vibrato of noise. A communal hum of travel.

When I open my eyes again, the sun has broken open, and vibrant colors begin to slowly glaze the sky. A mix of celestial embers in a typically azure sky. The entire interior of the car is bathed in these fall colors. The light reflects off of our faces, casting thick shadows across the planes of skin and bone and cartilage.

Charlotte begins flicking through radio stations, putting on some kind of older station, currently playing a Fleetwood Mac song I can't seem to find the title of. The chords quiver in my ears long after the song ends, and when the sun's beautiful painting has disappeared, and we're all swallowed in darkness instead of illuminated by pulsating hues, Meredy begins complaining again. I can't blame her really. She's only eight.

"Why can't _I_ sit next to Ultear? I'm all alone back here."

Charlotte ignores her, instead talking to my dad with concern and annoyance lacing her voice.

"Are you falling asleep behind the wheel?" My dad rubs his eyes, then drags his palm against his forehead, silver hair crumpling under his touch.

"No. Of course not. I'm not idiot."

"Well, you look tired."

"I'm _not,_ Charlotte."

I try to focus on the signs passing us. We pulled off the highway in search of a restaurant or gas station. I can't remember which.

"But what if you _do_?"

" _Mommy,_ I'm bored and I'm _hungry_!" Charlotte turns, light brown hair shaking around her face as the car jolts on something in the road.

"We'll stop in just a few moments, honey. Just wait."

"But _Mommy_."

"Calm down, Meredy," my dad snaps. "I can't focus on my driving with all that whining."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't be driving. And don't snap at my child. We've been driving for hours. She's justified."

"I didn't yell at her. And Jesus _Christ,_ will you _stop that_ , Charlotte? I'm _fucking fine._ "

Charlotte turns to those of us who are awake in the back (Lyon has an amazing talent for sleeping despite noise and movement.)

"How did that feel, Meredy? How did it feel to have Jacob yell at you for nothing?" Meredy is suddenly very quiet, and my dad uses it to jump in and interrogate me and Ultear in the same way.

"Ultear, Gray, how does it feel to have Charlotte freak out over _insignificant_ things?"

" _Insignificant?_ I'm scared for our _lives_ here, Jacob."

" _Ultear, Gray_ , answer my damn question. How does it feel?"

"Well, maybe she's right." Ultear sounds tired. We've dealt with this for far too long.

He makes a very sudden turn, Ultear makes a startled noise in the back of her throat and Lyon jumps from his thin sleep. My dad quickly turns into a parking spot, unclicking his seatbelt and opening the door.

"Everyone out. Go to the bathroom, get food. I don't care, but I don't want to hear _any_ complaints when we get back in the car." He begins muttering to himself as he tosses the keys to Charlotte and storms off.

"Fucking ungrateful, unfaithful bastards."

Ultear bursts out of the car and whisks inside. If the situation were to be reviewed by an outside source, they'd just think it was a long trip and she was relieved to stretch and be released of hunger or thirst, but I know how stressed my dad makes her. It's sad.

Lyon goes off more sluggishly, and once he's out of the car, I pull his seat forward, releasing Meredy from her spot in the back. She jumps out of the car, pink braids bouncing when her heels collide with the pavement. She quickly clings her hand to Charlotte's and the pair walk off towards the gas station as soon as the click of the door being locked rang out. I stand behind by the car for a moment, watching them together.

Sometimes I wonder if they wished they had never gotten into our mess of a family. I wouldn't find it hard to believe.

I walk into the gas station, head to the bathroom and after my quick pit stop, I stand in the middle of the store and gaze around. I consider getting food, but my stomach just barely begins to rumble before I get a glimpse of my dad, then another of Charlotte and Meredy, and then one of Ultear rubbing her forehead tiredly as she surveys beverage options. The hunger drains from my stomach rather quickly.

Instead, I drag my feet to the counter, peering over the head of a man standing in front of me. He seems tired as he runs a hand through his thin blonde hair. Everyone seems tired these days.

When I get to the counter, I dig deep into my pocket, pulling out crumpled dollar bills until I have just enough to buy some non-filter American Spirit cigarettes. I read once they're the strongest. The kind of thing that makes you have to sit down after smoking. I don't know how true that is, but I need a buzz. I don't smoke all that often. In fact, I haven't smoked in days, and when the clerk drops the small, colorful carton into my hands, yearning bursts in my lungs, a craving and withdrawal previously unnoticed.

When I burst out into the cold night air, hands trembling as I reach for my lighter, I notice the little flurries of snowflakes beginning to stick to the ground. I lean against the side wall of the gas station, ignoring the way the snowflakes drift into my eyelashes and melt into my eyes, leaving a cold kiss. Instead, I focus on the way the flame flickers out of my lighter, quivers in the air and paints the tip of my cigarette into a warm marmalade.

I inhale deeply, barely swallowing my cough as I smash my head into the wall behind me. It hurts for a moment, but I take a drag of my smoke and it slowly drizzles away. Sparks out like a dying ember. I do it again, and again. Then my cigarette is gone and the pain comes back and I'm reaching for another.

I hit my head again. It shakes and I try to forget the growing nauseous feeling—a mix of cigarettes, hunger and anguish—and I don't know why that's not enough for me to stop.

 _He puts his hands on my head and shakes it. If he were retelling a story where he did this to "shake" some other idea into my head, it was a playful wobble. He and I must have different memories, not that mine is the best, as he often reminds me, but I can remember the difference between the playful jiggle and a violent, exorcism-like, pulsating shove._

I light another cigarette.

When my dad comes around the corner, half the pack is gone, my lighter is running on its last fumes, and I'm sitting with my knees to my chest on the ground, head leaning against the cement. My banging of my skull has since receded to a gentle tapping.

He shakes his head at me in disapproval, muttering something about my disgusting habit I don't process.

"We're leaving, Gray. You're driving."

"What?"

"You're driving. Charlotte thinks I'm too _tired_ and Meredy won't stop complaining about being alone in the back so I'm sitting in the back, Meredy is sitting in the middle and you're driving. Now come _on_."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have Lyon drive?"

"Jesus Christ, Grayson. Just do it."

He stands with his arms crossed until I'm on my feet, then he stalks away. My legs are shaking as I follow him, and my vision is blurry, arms heavy. I feel vomit rising in my throat, and I lean a forearm against the wall for a moment, resting my head in it as I force back the disgusting dizziness and leaden feeling in my head. I barely avoid puking right there.

When I climb into the driver's seat, the shaking has spread through my entire body, and my fingers quiver with such intensity I can't breathe. I can barely even adjust the mirrors, and I know my family has noticed, because I catch Lyon's eyes in the rearview mirror, and they're narrowed into slits as he watches me.

I drag a hand across my eyes and forehead before turning the key in the ignition.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" Charlotte asks, laying a hand on my arm as she gazes at me in concern.

"I'm fine." I pull my arm away. I _hate_ how she speaks to me. So motherly. She's not my mom. She's _not_ my mom. I repeat the mantra to myself for as long as I can before she (or is it Ultear? Or even Lyon. I really can't tell) talks to me again, the voice washed out.

"Are you sure? I can drive if you want."

"He's _fine_. Grayson, just drive. We're already behind schedule."

I try to calm my breathing as I back out of the parking spot, blink the tears welling in my eyes back, and disregard the thick feeling of hopeless panic welling in my throat. I make eye contact with Lyon as I'm turning around to see where I'm backing out, and a few tears slip out. I feel them trail down my cold cheeks with a broiling kiss, and I quickly turn my head away. Can't show the weakness in front of my dad. I haven't cried in front of him since I found out mom died.

Everyone stays silent as I drive, even Meredy, who never seemed to learn how to shut up. I'm driving for maybe about 20 minutes, breath still ragged and pained, bilious feeling stronger than ever as I try desperately to focus on the road. Distraction killed Mom. Distraction _killed_ Mom. _My_ distraction killed mom.

A strangled sob escapes my throat and I screw my lips together, tap my fingers on the steering wheel as I try to focus.

"Jacob, he's clearly not fine," Charlotte.

"Just let him drive, he'll calm down. I'm not stopping." Dad.

"Dad, what the fuck?! Let him pull over!" Lyon.

"You stay out of it." Dad again.

"I'm not getting into a car crash because you're being a bastard, Dad." Ultear.

Focus on the voices… Let them lead you back… Pick them apart… Figure out the way they speak, the tone of voice they use. Don't let the anger drown you. Let it calm you. Stop the feeling. Stop the effects of it.

"Mommy, what's going on?" Meredy. Her voice is high-pitched. Squeaky. Though I don't remember it sounding that scared before.

"Nothing, baby. It's okay." Charlotte. Rich voice. Frustrated. Concerned.

I guess I can't help but make a noise again, as more tears spill from my eyes. My throat constricts and I begin hacking under the glow of a red light. I rub my eyes harshly, dig the heel of my palms into the sockets, feel the bones collide through skin.

"Grayson, what the hell are you doing? The light is _green_. That means _go._ " A honk behind me startles me and I jolt into driving.

"Dad, he _needs_ to pull over." I can't even pick the voice apart. I don't know why I'm so scared. I can't hear them anymore. Their voices are washed out. I pull over into a parking lot as soon as I can.

I barely make it out of the car before bile tears my throat apart and I begin heaving onto the pavement. I drop to my knees and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. I quiver on my kneecaps under the green light of a glowing store sign.

I cough, shaky, heavy arm barely able to cover my mouth, and little puffs of air billow from around the crook of my elbow as my lungs shake beneath my ribcage.

 _Three years after my first simple Christmas and Dad's abandoned all fleeting thoughts of a modest holiday. I get out of school a week before Christmas and a day before our Christmas party. The snow crunches under my boots as I shuffle home from the bus stop. My breath pours over my lips in a hazy white color, like smoke tumbling from the lungs of a chronic, year-long chain smoker._

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look up through the hot tears distorting my already blurry vision. It's my dad. He says something I can't decipher, and it sounds like an apology. I don't completely believe its validity, but I yearn for his comfort, and my heart clenches as it begs me just to forgive him, so I forget any doubts and let him hug me to his chest for a moment.

My tears quiver on the tips of my eyelashes as I climb back into the car. Charlotte is driving now. Ultear sits in the passenger seat, yet Meredy doesn't complain about their separation. Lyon scoots into the middle seat, and I realize I must really be a mess, because he never sits in the middle.

I tilt my head back, will the water to drain back into my tear ducts, but it doesn't, so I squeeze them shut, and then lean my head on Lyon's shoulder.

I must really be a mess, because he never lets me lean on him.

MY GRANDMOTHER RUNS out of the house soon as we pull up. The sun is just beginning to peek out of the horizon, and the sky is pale gray and pink. She hugs all of us as we climb out of the vehicle.

"I haven't seen you since the wedding! You've all grown so much! I'm so thrilled to have you here."

As she pulls away from hugging me, she stops.

"Are you okay, honey?" I nod, squeezing my eyes shut as I silently reply.

"Well, good Lord, Gray, even _you've_ never been this pale!"

"He got sick on the way up here, Mom," my dad supplies. "Gray go inside and brush your teeth. Your breath probably reeks."

As I wander inside, I look around the house. I haven't been here once since the move. It's been years. The bricks are the same, the furniture is weathered but the same—nothing's really changed but the people here. I hear my grandma's voice as the door swings shut.

"Well, he shouldn't feel sick for too long. He should be thrilled! Back in Canada, and with a new art opportunity, no less!"

I drop my bag by the door, head still spinning. I still haven't eaten since lunch yesterday (or maybe two days ago?). Maybe I shouldn't have smoked half a pack on an empty stomach, yet I still yearn for another.'

When I get to the bathroom, I lean on the sink, blinking to clear the dizziness. As I slide down onto the floor, I realize I forgot my toothbrush in my bag, so I slid over to the closet for a new one. My grandma always gave us new toothbrushes when we were kids. I don't know why. I always liked getting them. They were bright colors and they always made me happy. Happier than most things.

I didn't realize until years later how sad it was that a toothbrush was one of my primary sources of joy. I think that's one of the reasons why my mom and other family members were so concerned for me as a kid—apparently I rarely talked, and even as a kid I didn't show much joy. Then when I did, it was over things like toothbrushes, and that used to really confuse my entire family. According to my mom, they used to have competitions of sort of who could get me to laugh or crack a grin—my uncle, my grandparents, my mom, even my dad. All of them. Apparently my dad used to be pretty good at it.

When I was a kid, Lyon and I used to have competitions to test how far we could brush our tongue without gagging. It was some strange game we used to play. I push it further to wash away the putrid taste of vomit, but I quickly fall back into the game, pushing it farther and farther back until I'm dry heaving into the sink. I don't know why I do these things to myself. I never know how Lyon never felt sick from the game like I did.

It took me years to figure out Lyon was cheating all along.

I drop the toothbrush on the side of the sink, shuffling out into the living room. My grandma is sitting, talking to Charlotte and Ultear and Meredy, but when I enter, she stands up and smiles.

"Gray, honey, why don't I show you to your room?" I follow her as she bounces upstairs. I don't get how a woman who lost her husband already has so much more energy than me.

"You're so skinny, sweetie. And pale too. I thought going further south would give you some color. I do hope I can convince your dad to bring you guys up here more often. He keeps trying to get me to move down to Virginia to be closer to all of you, but I couldn't bear to part with the home. It just wouldn't feel right. I grew up in Isvan, I can't leave now, you know?"

I nod, forgetting she can't see me behind her. When the she opens the door to the room I'm staying in, it's bathed in a gentle morning glow and everything appears gray and washed out. She doesn't bother to flick on the lights. My grandma prefers using even the slightest bit of natural light over light bulbs. The floorboards creek under our footsteps, and when I set down my bag the noise is loud. My grandmother wipes her hands on her jeans, pink sweater hanging slightly past her wrists.

"You're in your dad's old room, I hope that's okay."

I haven't been in my dad's childhood room for more than a few minutes at a time _ever_. Something about being in the room of my father is overwhelmingly nostalgic. I don't like that feeling or what it does to me. But I nod anyways, and let her shut the door behind her as she leaves so I can "rest," locking me away with my dad's old belongings. I feel like I'm intruding on a Jacob Milkovich I never knew—one I was never intended to know.

In the faint sunlight, I can see dust floating around the air, small flecks signaling the neglect of a previous life. I slowly walk around the room, running my fingers over the dust gathered in the corners of objects. There's pictures of my dad during his "glory days" back when he played basketball really well. Apparently, he was very good and could've gone pro one day, but then he met Ur and they fell in love and had Ultear and he had to give it up. Sometimes I wonder if he misses it.

There's pictures of him and his old friends, a stack of him and his old girlfriends, underneath a picture frame with me and my mom during their early relationship in the beginning of their college days.

I finally slip my shoes off and my jeans follow, but I leave my dark blue sweatshirt on as I crawl under my dad's covers. I hear the voices of my dad, grandma and Charlotte talking downstairs. Lyon is probably already asleep, despite his long naps on the car ride up here. I can hear Ultear and Meredy in the room they're sharing. Sometimes I wonder if Ultear wishes Meredy were her actual sister, given how well they get along.

I pull the comforter up to my chin, breathing in the scent of sheets left unused for ages. Its warmth envelopes me and I almost begin to sweat under the touch. As I pull the blankets tighter around me, I look out the window with half-lidded eyes and try to imagine my dad doing the same thing, thinking about basketball and friends and girlfriends and "going pro."

And I don't know why that leaves me so cold.

ULTEAR DRAGS ME to the lake we used to go to a two days before Christmas and one day before my seventeenth birthday. She tells me she wants to get photographs, and then proceeds to tell me if I want to be successful in my art show I need the inspiration. Any thoughts of declining are thrown out the window, because my grandma and father both immediately perk at the idea and encourage us to hit the lake together. I think my grandma wanted to see us bond. I think my dad just wanted us out of his hair for a few. Both understandable.

It's just like Ultear to corner me when she knows I can't escape. She does, however, promise to take me to the mall afterwards to get pretzels at the place Mom used to take us. It used to be my favorite. I'm scared now it will fill me with dreadful nostalgia, but I agree anyway.

While we're at the lake, the sunlight is dim behind a haze of clouds. The washed out light casts a glow across the surface, painting ice in sundrenched pigments of dim yellow and the few exposed patches of water a gentle periwinkle. Ultear wanders around the area, taking photos of anything and everything.

Over the years, Ultear has developed a hobby for photography. She likes to capture a moment so she can remember it later. I think part of it has to do with mom dying. We don't have many pictures of her. Most of our photos are ones she took, but the ones we do have of her are beautiful though they fill me with a dull throb of melancholy. I'm not sure if my sister feels the same way.

She settles on a rock beside the one I sit on and begins talking. "I've missed Canada."

"Me too."

Silence, she glances at her camera then back at me.

"You should paint one of the photos I took some time."

"Maybe. Why?"

"I don't know. My dorm lacks homeliness. I miss you and Lyon and Meredy and Mom. If I have your painting of a place in Canada, not only will it remind me of you, but it'll remind me of home. In simpler times."

"You mean before Mom died?"

"Yea, I guess. I have one of your old drawings in my dorm already. The one you did of one of our house parties?"

 _I laugh shortly as Lyon walks into my room and picks up the drawing on my floor. A sketch of another one of our house parties, the guests blurry and my dad in the center of it, my family members clear as crystal in their positions in the room. It's bad, and I know it. After all, I'm ten. What can I do? But Lyon just grins at me and ruffles my hair._

"Gray?" I look up.

"I said I found it in one of my boxes when we moved to Virginia. Anyways, it reminded me of you and Lyon and Mom and Dad. It's a good picture."

Why would she possibly want to keep _anything_ I've done?

"It's not that good."

"It is."

"I was ten."

"And talented. Don't deny it. You're getting work in a gallery."

"Maybe."

"You're really, really good. I wish I had talent like you. Dad may not appreciate it, but Lyon and I always have and will. We talk about it sometimes. Yea I'm smart, and Lyon's good at sports, but you can capture moments and emotions with your own hands, and that's special. Not enough people have that ability these days. It's all social media and smart phone cameras."

We sit in silence for a few minutes and she stands back up, dark hair washing down her back and shoulders like waves on the shore. The wind picks up the dark strands, and they split apart, clinging together with static that makes them look feathery.

"Ultear?"

"Yea?"

"I'm sorry I killed mom."

" _What_? You didn't."

"Dad said it once."

"Really? When?"

"When I was 14."

"Well don't listen to him. I'm sure he didn't mean it."

"But he did."

"Well you didn't kill her. It was that drunk driver that hit you guys. I don't know why you let Dad get away with stuff like that."

Because he didn't have to adopt me. He didn't have to keep me after I killed his wife.

She walks further away and it unexpectedly strikes me that they don't know I distracted her. Mom, I mean. Suddenly, I feel like I've been lying for years. Gathering sympathy I don't deserve. I begin to feel very disgusting. It's different than the quiet apathy this lake always used to give me. I'm not sure I like this lake anymore. I sit in silence before I speak again.

Ever so quietly.

"Because maybe I _did_ kill her."

I shift on my rock and listen to the gentle waves that aren't frozen lap against the rocks and the ice. The occasional camera shutter breaks the tranquility, but only for a moment.

Besides, the quiet clicks aren't loud enough to bother me anyway.

THE MALL IS busy with last minute shoppers. My sister and I push our way through the crowds together, and I'm amazed at our ability to retain the layout of the mall in our memory.

The voices of people laughing at talking and gathering in a communal celebration of life is deafening in a way. It's a noise sloppily stitched together, small snippets of vocal fabric slapping my ears as I pass.

Ultear and I sit at table together once we get our pretzels, and I fiddle with mine as I watch her delicately pull the twists apart and into small, bite-size pieces.

People mill around aimlessly, chattering on about one thing or another. Ultear and I sit mostly in silence; the occasional rustling of napkins are the only noises we emit. It's understandable, really. I won't turn 17 until tomorrow and Ultear is already 21. We're just not on the same radar. Quite frankly, we never really have been.

When her food is finished and mine is too, Ultear wipes her hands on her extra napkin and stands up, crushing the paper into her fist as she runs her other hand across her mouth, sweeping away nonexistent crumbs. She brushes some of her dark bangs away from her eyes and turns to me, hands on her hips.

"I'm gonna do some brief shopping. You can come with me or go off somewhere on your own."

I, of course, choose to go on my own. We're not on the same radar. We never will be. And sometimes, it's just better not to try.

I wander through the mall a tad uselessly. While the general layout is the same, renovations and new stores kind of blur my immersion in the past. Eventually, I find my old favorite bookstore, and I replace wandering the mall crowds with wandering up and down the shelves, skimming book spines as I pass.

Finding something that appears to be Gone With the Wind—a book a deciphered in eighth grade English class—I sit down on the floor and leaf through the pages, trying to remember how the story went so I can comb through my dyslexia and actually entertain myself to some degree. It just gives me a splitting headache.

"Gray?"

I look up and find two girls standing above me; one's arms are crossed, and the other has a hand on her jutted hip. I try to figure out where I know them from.

"Oh come on, Gray. Surely you remember Maria and me."

It hits me. The red hair and freckled face, the curly brown hair and clear olive skin. _Maria and Rose._  
"Oh, right." I stand up. "Um... it's nice to see you guys again."

"Yea. We haven't seen you since your meltdown!" Maria snickers at her own statement, looking to Rose for her reaction. The laughs are mirrored.

"Though I must say, I never thought Gray Fullbuster-Milkovich would end up so good looking." Rose says.

"Me either. What are you doing back in Canada?" Maria's red hair spills down her back as she turns her head between me and rose. Her jacket makes a crinkling noise as she shifts around. She never could stand still.

"Just visiting. It's a bit weird, though cause my step moms never even been here."

"Step mom? What happened to Ur? She was always nice," Rose seems genuinely distraught and I appreciate it.

"She... she died a few months after we moved. Car accident."

"Oh, that's terrible. I'm so sorry."

"Thanks..."

"So what have you been up to all these years?" Maria asks, single eyebrow raised as she waits for an answer.

"Um… Not much. I might be getting some artwork in a gallery back in Virginia, but that's about it."

"Oohh, how exciting." I can't rake through Rose's tone of voice. I never could, but something inside me hopes they're genuinely being friendly. Perhaps two new Facebook friends are in my future—that's not much to whoop at, but the majority of my friends on Facebook are relatives or my father's or mother's or stepmother's friends. I'm friends with people from elementary and middle school: Cana, Loke, Natsu, Lucy, Erza, Levy, etc. But that's pretty much it, and I find myself a tad excited at the idea of keeping in touch with people in Canada.

Maria and Rose exchange some more glances, whispering to each other in hushed tones before turning back to me, Maria leading the conversation.

"So you're 16 now, right?"

"Yea. I'll be 17 on Christmas Eve."

"Oh yea, I forgot you had a weird birthday. So like, you can drive right?"

"Yea…"

"Did you drive here?"

"I mean, yea, but—"

"Do you think you can give me and Rose a ride home?"

 _"_ _I'm Levy's friend. She said that you have the same eighth period as me and that I should ask you to show me to the buses afterwards. We ride on the same one." Of course. She's talking me up for a favor, not for interest._

 _"_ _Okay. I'll walk you there."_

"Gray." I blink away the thoughts of Lucy in a time where I our relationship was just me longing after my best friend's crush.

"Oh, um, I drove here with my sister, and my uncle is coming over soon, but I can probably ask her?"

They're looking at me weirdly. I'm not sure why.

"Um, no it's fine. We'll just call my dad again," Rose says. "Um, nice seeing you. Thanks anyway." They walk away and I listen then as they begin whispering, picking up faint traces of conversation before they disappear.

"God, I should've known he'd still be a freak."

"I don't why he blanks out so much. It's so _fucking_ weird. I thought his daydreaming was bad in elementary school. _Jesus,_ he zones out in the middle of _conversations_ now."

"Seriously, he's so weird. The art kids always are."

 _I nod slowly, I can feel my eyes widen. Everything seems to be more intense. Voices are louder. Colors are brighter. The wind is sharper. I can hear Rose and Maria snicker towards each other, and catch sight of the brunette lean sideways, tuck her friend's ginger hair behind her ear to clear a path for her whispery voice._

I can't find it in myself to convince myself they're wrong. Instead, I stand dejectedly. And I stand and imagine Canada and drawing in the dirt and rosaries and rain on sweaters and open windows in cold, _cold_ classrooms.

I stare at the spot Maria and Rose left until Ultear finds me.

THE BULK OF dinner is a quiet, strained affair. My father and his brother don't quite get along, and most of the conversation is held together by my grandmother and stepmother. They chatter aimlessly, and my family manages to avoid arguing, though the conversation holds a note of tenseness, a way of making sure my dad and uncle don't butt heads. Just like me and Ultear, they're just not on the same page.

"So, Gray, I hear you're being considered for artwork in a gallery," my uncle says as he saws into his roast beef with his knife. The cutlery clinks against the ceramic surface, and it makes a grating grinding sound as the fork reflects candlelight back into my eyes.

"Um, yea."

"Is it a work you've already done, or are you going to paint a new one for the gallery?" my grandmother asks, gazing at me in interest as I rub my hand under my nose.

"My art teacher said to work on some stuff over break, so that I have a mix of old and new to show the gallery owner."

"Well, I think you should pick something with brighter colors to put in the gallery," my father mutters. He doesn't seem to find the subdued colors I use work his time—he feels it makes artwork dull.

"It's not really my choice, Dad. The work that gets put in the show, if _anything_ gets put in the show, isn't my choice. It's the owner's."

"Well, if someone has enough taste to own a gallery, surely they now how important color is to art."

"Jacob, what do you know about art?" My uncle mutters.

"Enough to know that color is important," my father snaps in reply.

My entire family lets out a bit of a communal sigh, aside from Meredy, who's simply too young to understand the early signs of arguments. My grandmother adopts a tired, haggard look in her eyes, rubbing a hand across her forehead as she drops her other arm onto the table, fork scraping the edge of her plate as it falls to the tablecloth. There are moments where my entire family just seems to wither temporarily into tired silence and sadness, and I can't help but wonder how natural that truly is.

I try to focus on the food on my plate, eyes trained downwards as I block out the voices of my dad and uncle's quiet argument, but the sight of it just fills the back of my throat with the illusion of bile, and I look away, instead focusing on the snow falling outside the window, turned slightly golden from the candlelight and amber chandelier light glowing out of the window. Some snowflakes drop and stick to the screen for a moment in flurries of crystalline white clumps before melting into the warmth radiating from the house.

My grandma likes to eat early, so the sun is just starting to slowly climb its way down the planes of the sky, pouring bright colors into the milky clouds drizzling across the sky, and paint warm tones across the sheet of snow dispersing itself over the ground.

Finally my uncle leans back in his chair, and it creaks against the movement as he wipes his hands on his pant legs, dropping his fork onto his plate.

"Just forget it, Jacob. Keep being an ass to your son, I don't know why I even care anymore."

"I'm not being an ass, I'm simply giving him constructive criticism! And I can't even _begin_ to comprehend what that snide little 'I don't know why I care anymore' could _possibly_ mean. I really don't."

"It _means_ exactly what I said. You give all your kids a hard time, I get it, it's how you parent, but you've been pushing this kid—this _great, talented_ kid—around for _years_! Since he was a _child_. I just don't understand it. Like, to an _insane_ degree."

"That's ridiculous. I don't give Gray any harder a time than I do Lyon or Ultear. It's called being an _involved_ parent. And seeing as you're unmarried and childless, you really couldn't begin to understand that, Eric. I _don't_ push Gray to an insane degree."

"Oh, _really_? Don't think I don't know about the little stunt you pulled driving up here. I had _both_ Lyon and Ultear texting me during the car ride and talking to me after your arrival saying they were scared they were going to _die._ But you didn't care. Oh no, because Jacob Milkovich can do no wrong. You watched your youngest son have a panic attack behind the wheel, watched your other children be terrified of you and their fate. You watched all this happen until someone was vomiting in a parking lot without a second thought!"

"That's a dramatic, embellished version of the truth, Eric, grow up and stop listening to children's tales."

"Okay, then what happened?"

"Fine, maybe I failed to recognize Grayson was a _little_ upset, but that boy is dramatic so often, I never know what to expect. One minute he's fine and then the next he's having a meltdown. He's always been emotional to a fault, if I catered to his every pussy-footed whim like his mother did, he still wouldn't even ride a bike, let alone drive a _car_."

"Jacob, do you not understand that your son watched his mom _die_ behind the wheel of a car? Being forced into driving when he's already upset and distracted is not _safe_ physically _and_ emotionally for him, or anyone else in the car."

"It was 6 years ago, he shouldn't be _that_ upset over things that happened _years_ ago! _That's_ what's unhealthy."

"Oh, my _God_! Of course it's unhealthy, but you never got him any help for the effect that would've had on him mentally. I stayed with you after Ur died, until a little after Gray could go back to school. I _know_ what happened. You were comforting and supportive up until he was just barely well enough to be back on his feet, and then you snapped right back into berating him, and tearing him down, and making him listen to you do the same to his siblings, this time without someone else to keep you in check. Jesus Christ, of _course_ he's still that upset!"

Finally, my grandmother cuts in, snapping about how that's enough, and they shouldn't be behaving like that during the Christmas season. She asks me to help her clear the table, and I comply. I think she wants me out of the room, away from people arguing about me. I can't say I'm anything less than grateful for that.

I try to wash the dishes to distract myself, but my grandmother insists I don't do so on my "vacation." I wish my home never became a family tourism hotspot. Maybe then Mom would still be alive. Canada always felt safe. Drunk drivers don't exist here. But then again, _I_ exist here. And that's just as terrible.

I lean against the countertop, arms crossed across my chest as I listen to quiet noises of my grandmother running water and sponges over dishes. She talks to me about not letting my father get to me, saying that he doesn't mean it, his caring just gets _muddled_. It sounds so much like something my mother would say, and that send shockwaves of unexplained panic through my chest.

I exchange parting words with my grandmother, and begin to make my way out the front door, pulling my jacket on as I do. My uncle and siblings make to follow me, and we set out on a mostly quiet walk down the frozen street.

I stumble ahead of my uncle, Lyon and Ultear, letting their conversation fade behind me as my eyesight blurs in front of me. In and out, in and out, in and out.

I focus on my breathing to try and center my eyesight, but instead i just get distracted by the way it moves. In and out, in and out, in and out. The sun is now just a sliver of brazen light over the tops of houses, and the top of the sky is a deep violet.

 _The grass is cold on my feet, the dark green blades tickling the pale skin on the sole of my foot, a long strand curling over my toes. The chilly rain falls on my hair, gathering in the dark strands like dewdrops on a spider web and I stand in silence as they make their way through the tangled paths of my raven hair onto my scalp, a few escaping down my forehead or neck._

 _I watch the swirling colors painted across the sky, over a portrait of silhouetted pine trees—the kind that stands tall and proud, quivering in the wind and spraying it's soft pointy needles through the air with their sweet, Christmassy scent. The sky is turning a thick, smothering indigo, blending with the final rays of deep red and gentle orange that outline the horizon. Stars are beginning to appear like freckles in the purple, wispy clouds picking up the brilliant hues of the sunset. The earth itself is better than any artist you'll find in a museum. My breath is forming clouds, each puff of air clinging onto each other for a second before disappearing into the painting._

 _The door creaks open as Lyon sticks his head out. "Mom says to come in before you get pneumonia."_

"Gray."

"What?"

"I said, we should go in before we get pneumonia."

A hand claps onto my shoulder and I startle. My breaths catches, stops the steady pattern of breaths.

"You okay, gray?" My uncle looks at me in something akin to concern, but at my small nods he gives up.

"I'll be in in a minute," I say, and the three of them wander off back towards the house. I watch the snow gathered on the pine trees, branches drooping under the pressure of the snow's touch. The moon casts a slight silver glow on the snow.

When I begin to bring myself towards the house, my feet drag against the ground, and I clip a patch of ice with my foot. I clatter onto the ground, cold pavement and snow seeping into my jacket

 _The rolling finally stops on my side and my face collides with something cold. The window? No, that's in my face, not on it. The pavement. Tiny rocks are pressed into my cheek, along with little pricks of ice that feel like small blades poking into the scrapes on my alabaster skin._

I don't bother to pick myself back up.

 **a/n this chapter is called** ** _Canada, First Half_** **cause it was getting to be very long for a chemical violets chapter and it's nowhere** ** _near_** **done. this was looking like it was gonna be like an 18k chapter, and that's just too intense lol.**

 **so i cut it off at a good cliffhanger. this isn't even the craziest shit coming, family arguments will likely pale behind what i have planned for Part 2. be prepared.**

 **hope you enjoyed the chapter!**

 **have a lovely evening!**

 **-c.v.**


	20. Part 3: Canada, Second Half

**disclaimer: still don't own it**

 ** _unedited_**

 **CAGED**

 **16/17 YEARS OLD (2014/2015)**

 **Part 3:** ** _Canada, Second Half_**

MY UNCLE REALIZES about an hour later that I haven't returned to the house, and he sets out with Lyon to search for me. They find me asleep on the side of the road, exactly where I fell. I wake up when they shake me, frantic voices piercing the quiet, still air of the small town of Isvan.

My uncle scoops me up in his arms like a child and there I zone out completely until suddenly I find myself in a hospital waiting room, half asleep with my head in my brother's lap. When a nurse comes to lead us back into a room, my dad and uncle each hook an arm under my armpits and heave me upwards, holding me on my feet as I stumble after the nurse.

I haven't been to a hospital since my mom died, and being there fills my hazy head with unpleasant memories. I lay on the bed, waiting for a doctor as nurses hook me up to an IV and a heart monitor, watching the worried faces of my father, Charlotte, uncle, siblings and grandmother holding staying back out of the nurses' ways through half-lidded, heavy eyes.

The doctor comes in and somewhere through the fog I hear him say I have a concussion, but I don't feel much different than I normally do. I think I say it out loud, but no one answers or even looks my way, so I guess I'm tripping out. My eyes flutter over to the clock and see that its hands are slowly ticking past the point of 8:00.

 _The last thing my eyes land on before the vision is too blurry to be useful and the black takes over is the cracked digital clock of the radio. The last two numbers are snubbed out, one flickering and lighting up the spider web crack in the plastic-like glass with an electric blue, getting caught in the edges of the destroyed clock, the lines of the broken car brighter than the rest of it. Like a radioactive web spun by a poison spider._

 _The only fully functioning digit is the hour marker. I look at it just as the seven changes to an eight… 8 o'clock._

"Gray? Did you hear him?"

"What?"

The doctor chuckles in what seems to be understanding—perhaps all concussion victims act like this (though I really _don't_ feel like I have a concussion)—before he repeats himself, voice understanding and calm.

"I asked if you knew what happened."

"Um… Well, I was walking with my uncle and Lyon and Ultear, and I was feeling really dazed, so I stayed behind for some fresh air, and I guess I was so distracted that I slipped and hit my head."

"Gray, your dazes are acting up again?" Lyon asks, his eyes worried and his arms folded.

"Yea…"

After a bit more time of the doctor going over facts with Dad and Charlotte, I'm free to go, and Meredy gives me a giant hug as soon as my feet hit the linoleum flooring. My arms feel fuzzy and weightless, almost as though I fell asleep on them for too long and now it's impossible to move them, but I wrap my arms around her small frame to the best of my abilities. Lyon puts a hand on my shoulder while Ultear puts one hand on my other shoulder and another on Meredy's.

We wander after the adults and stand in the waiting room as they check me out. I'm swaying on my feet, teetering into the brink of falling, then getting pulled another direction instead. I root myself to the feeling of weight shifting between the balls of my feet and my heels until my dad pulls me into a hug as well.

"You scared me so much, Gray. I'm glad you're okay. You gotta stop this stuff." He then returns to his original placement in our caravan, and when he arrives to the car he pulls back the seats, allowing my uncle, step mom and step sister to climb into the very back, before he and Lyon slide me into the middle seat, and Ultear pulls me onto her shoulder, arm wrapped around me. My eyes stare glazed over, half-lidded at the car mat underneath Ultear's feet. Her toes tap an anxious pattern.

My head lolls slightly, and I can feel her heartbeat through her collarbones, rapid and nervous, though steadily slowing the longer she holds onto me. Lyon rests his hand on my leg, and the warmth of his palm seeps through my pant leg, comforting me as I drift to sleep.

I guess being in the hospital brought back bad memories of Mom to them, as well, and that's why they're so nervous. I silently curse myself for allowing this stuff to become a permanent part of my life.

Maybe I didn't end my family's lives like I did Ur's, but it sure feels like I'm ruining them.

ON CHRISTMAS EVE, despite my concussion, we visit Ur's parents with my grandma and uncle. My other grandmother gives me a warm hug as soon as I arrive, and immediately after she parks me on her weathered tan sofa, and I spend the beginning of my birthday celebration watching mindless cartoons with Meredy, head laying the arm of the couch. Despite the fabric and thin cushioning lining the furniture's appendage, I can still feel the wooden frame driving itself into my skull, but I don't move a muscle, too thoughtlessly enthralled in the television to even fully process it.

Both of my grandma's call Meredy into the kitchen to decorate cookies—even though she holds no relation to my step-sister, Ur's mom has already taken an intense liking to the pinkette. I blink slowly as she runs away, thinking back to my own holiday cookie practices.

 _I stand on my tip-toes and pull multiple platters from the cabinet. The cookies are waiting in a tin off to the side. I begin putting them onto the trays, glancing constantly at my dad's flash card of how to arrange them. Considering we don't have a "yreem" or "strigeb" platter, I choose to believe that it says green and striped. Chocolate chip on the green one. Frosted sugar cookies on the big, crystalline red one. The vegan cookies for Janice Green and Irwin Bailey on the small striped platter._

 _Dad is breathing over my shoulder as I begin to settle the cookies into their places._

 _"_ _No! Gray, we've been over this. The white chocolate cookies go on the snowflake platter and the peppermint bark goes on the Santa one."_

I hope her decorating experience is more enjoyable than mine ever was.

The couch creaks and shifts weight as Lyon drops onto the cushion beside my feet. We sit in silence for a few moments, serenaded by the low drone of the tv and the whimsical humming of Christmas music drifting out of the kitchen, along with the sickly sweet scent of my grandmothers' cookies.

"Happy birthday."

"Thank you."

"How are you doing, Gray? Like, really?"

"Fine."

"Is school going okay?"

"Yea, I mean I struggle more than I used to, obviously, but it's nothing I can't handle."

"Are things with your friends good? What were their names again?"

"Cana and Loke. And yea, it's all good. Really. You don't have to worry about me."

"I know, you're 17 now, you can handle yourself. I just worry anyway. You _are_ my little brother, after all. I just wanna make sure you're not lonely or anything."

Part of me wonders if the reason he worries is because I used to be totally alone in Canada, or maybe because he still thinks about when he found me wandering the roads after Natsu and my friends decided they were done with me. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

"I'm good, man. Besides, I have a girlfriend now. I have for a while."

"What the hell? Why didn't you mention it?"

"I don't know."

"Who is it?"

"Lucy. She's been to some of our holiday parties. We were friends in middle school."

"Is she one of the ones who ditched you?"

"… I guess you could put it that way."

Lyon sighs, rubs a hand over shut eyelids and then runs his fingers through his hair.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, kid. But if you're happy, I guess it can't hurt." He then claps a hand on my knee, standing up and commanding me to come to the kitchen for dinner. In my warped, tunnel vision, my perception of time is a bit off, I suppose, because I had no clue how long I had been curled up on the couch and something about it makes me feel extremely at home.

I slide into my chair and watch my grandpa move to light the candles in the middle of the table as my grandma places the last of the food on the table. Her gray sweater has snowflakes stitched delicately into the knit lining.

I return my attention to my grandfather, who is muttering to himself in slight annoyance as he tries to light a match, to no avail. He tosses the dead match on the table and it rolls for a moment before stopping beside my sister's fork. The next one works. The burgundy end of the short wooden stick flares into life, hissing and crackling with small sparks of heat. The orange flame begins to eat its way down the base of the match and it licks dangerously close to the pale fingers of my grandfather as he waits patiently for each candle to light. He shakes the flame out and releases a puff of air onto it, then settling into his chair and a small trail of smoke climbs through the air off of the singed end. The candles are a forest green, and when the flame latches onto their wicks the tips of their heads glow a brighter shade, dripping and shrinking under the heat of the small fire.

My grandfather wraps a burly hand around his class, holding it up into the air in a familiar salute of celebration.

"Merry Christmas!"

The sentiment is returned with a cacophony of different voices, glasses reaching towards the center of the table and clinking merrily like fragile bells in a Christmas carol. The heat of the candles wafts a bit too close to our skin, hitting us with a quick rush of warmth. My glass hits my father's a bit too hard, and a cold drop of water falls to the tablecloth, narrowly missing the candle nearest to me. The drop soaks in quickly, fanning out with its cold liquid touch.

"And happy birthday, Gray," my dad's mom adds. I smile, offer thanks.

I tuck my cold hands in between my legs, wait for food to come around to me, and even then I am reluctant to let my appendages leave the comforting warmth of my own body heat. Once all the food has been passed around, easy, merry conversations begin to coat the air in noise, almost completely masking the radio's holiday music.

The aroma of food drifts lazily towards my nose and I slowly work my way through my meal, answering questions of small talk and listening to conversations around me. The setting sun glows through the window behind me, casting long shadows across the room and painting our skin with a glow of orange, and each of our varying hues of melanin suddenly seem to carry the same surface color—the same fragile fire that makes the planes of our faces stand out and the shadows starkly contrast.

Through the apathy and disconnect of concussion, I feel a twinge of joy and pride for my family. Watching their unique faces bathed in a familial light removes me from the strange feeling that comes with being adopted. Something about seeing us all reverted to the sun's whim of coloring startles me. Makes me realize what we all truly are—just humans. The center of our own universes. We choose what we can because the rest really isn't up to us.

My parents used what little power they had to choose to bring me into a family, and something about that spreads a warm buzz over my chest.

I leave all feelings of misplacement behind and I finally tune back into the conversation, laughing and conversing with my family. A symphony of human noise filling with our existence with as much meaning as he can before the world makes its final decision for us. Even when the sun disappears, and the color of it's existence disappears, we stay in our own little world of family.

I choose to relish in the feeling while I can.

I SIT BY the dim light of the Christmas tree, it's glow is a speckled off-white dancing across the room. It's almost hard to decipher which gifts are for Christmas and which are for my birthday. My siblings sit around me, and Lyon and Ultear look a tad out of place, sitting with their legs curled and crossed underneath them, clad in Ur's mom's thick knit sweaters.

We open Christmas gifts from Ur's parents first. In the morning they have church and later a Christmas party, and it's just too long a drive for either side of the caravan to travel back immediately after leaving.

I don't pay too much attention to what Meredy gets—there's so much colorful, bright stuff I choose just not to bother with feigning interest. It'll tire me out to much. Part of me wonders if it was weird for them. Buying presents for the new daughter of their son-in-law's new wife. Given the smile on my grandma's face, I don't think there's really that much resentment.

Both of my grandmas have been really great friends since my parents started dating. They talk to each other about the gifts and where they found them after each is opened, a quiet conversation overlapping with the Christmas music and sound of tearing wrapping paper.

Lyon gets a book about career choices (I think my dad and grandparents are worried that his gap year was due to a lack of direction, not waiting for his girlfriend to graduate with him) and some CDs. Ultear gets a check to save and help her out when she graduates college in a few months and a pile of books.

For Christmas I get a new set of Gouache, which my grandma explains the Michael's worker told her was like watercolors that you can use on canvases and a Mac DeMarco CD. For my birthday I get a new set of fancy paintbrushes, and when I open the package and run a finger along their bristles, they're soft underneath my fingertip, and the gentle flurry of pressure sends electric shocks down my nerves, flaring them to life.

My grandmother then sends my grandpa to go gets cookies from the kitchen, and we all enjoy them by the heat of the fire.

My energy from earlier drains quickly, and soon a dull throbbing headache begins to permeate my senses, and I lay back on the carpet, suddenly finding it very hard to keep my head upright. I guess that's to be expected with a concussion.

Somewhere to my right I hear my grandfather ask if I'd like to put in my new CD. Lyon complains that he got CDs too, but I know it's all in jest. I hear myself reply, but everything sounds like I'm swimming. I pretend not to notice it and drag myself into a sitting position, leaning my head on the coffee table instead of the floor. My uncle asks me what my favorite song on the album is, to which I reply Chamber of Reflection.

When the CD starts spinning, my phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket for the first time in a while, finding a text from Lucy waiting for me. I give the blue glowing screen a small smile as I read the happy birthday message.

 ** _Lucy:_** **Happy birthday, Gray! I miss you so much. Can't wait for you to come back to Virginia. I still find it a bit strange that you spent 10 years in a different country and I've only left Virginia a handful of times. I hope you're having a great time!**

 _Lyon pats my shoulder and begins driving home. The windows are rolled down, and the radio is set to a random station that I choose not to listen to carefully too. Stray raindrops fly from the car and past my vision, the ambient glow of streetlights reflecting in puddles and leaving shaking illumination on the road._

 _My only real coherent thought is that I never got to show Taking Back Sunday to Lucy._

 ** _Unknown Number:_** _It's Lucy. Natsu gave me your phone number. I just wanted to wish you good luck. You'll do great. That painting you did for history was amazing. You're a great artist. It's amazing one person can have so much talent._

I let my hand fall to the ground and I finally lean back onto the carpet, head at an angle watching my family through bleary vision. The feeling of disconnect begins to climb its way down my spine once again, grasping onto my nerves and organs with a freezing touch.

I force myself to stay awake until Chamber of Reflection comes on, and then I let the psychedelic keyboard carry me asleep. Swallow the hollow throb in the pit of my stomach, but never digest it. Let it simmer under the surface and leave a gross burning sensation in the lining of my chest and throat and internal functions.

I hate zoning out when I'm in a good mood. More than anything and anyone. I just wish I knew how to shut it off.

MY DAD SHAKES me awake, and I open my eyes to the dim, splotchy lights of the tree. The rustling noises of jackets by the door and hugging serenade me from the front hall, and I let my dad pull me into a standing position.

"Happy birthday, Gray."

"Thank you."

"I love you. You know that, right?"

"Sure."

I hope he believes me, because to be honest, I'm not always sure what I believe.

My grandparents give me a tight hug, tell me they miss me and that they hope to see me again before I leave. They wish me a happy birthday and then send us all on our way.

I climb into the car on Ultear's side, and slide into the middle seat. My head is still throbbing, sending shocks of pain throughout my body, making my fingertips feel numb. The heater of the car finally begins to spread, causing the outdoor cold to capitulate under its fevering touch. I begin to sweat under the cover of my scratchy blue sweater and green parka, but there isn't enough room in the car, and even if it was, I feel drained and tired, and the heat fluctuating the stability of my senses roots me to the car.

Ultear is talking about the jobs she's looking into, and Lyon makes offhanded sarcastic comments occasionally, to which she returns with the same vigor and retort. Behind me, my grandma and uncle are listening to Meredy talk amiably. My dad and Charlotte remain mostly quiet, adding input to Ultear's plans and conversation, but overall focusing on the road.

The snow lining the edges of the roads makes everyone cautious. A car crash killed Ur in even without ice and slush lining the streets, so the presence of Canadian road conditions are tensing.

The streetlights cast golden glows over the snow and the cars passing by, and I watch the way the shadows arc through the vehicle and then get drawn out again as we drive. I keep watching until we're back in the driveway and then I pull my wet boots off in the entryway and pull myself upstairs. It's nearly midnight at this time, and all my family members wander by the open door on their way to their respective beds, wishing me a final happy birthday while they pass.

I shut the door quietly, pulling off my wet jacket and dropping it onto the ground, where the small droplets of water drip onto the wooden floors in a miniscule puddle. I pull off my jeans and cold, wet socks and wander to the bathroom in my sweater and my boxers.

The light is glowing from the open doorway and I find Lyon standing in front of the mirror, rinsing his toothbrush under the steady stream of sink water. He scoots over to make room for me and we both prep our toothbrushes in silence.

"You wanna have another tooth brushing competition?" I ask suddenly, and Lyon gives me an odd look through narrowed eyes before giving a short laugh and agreeing.

I know he's gonna cheat, and yet I still find myself pushing to the absolute brink. An absolutely idiotic childhood game. So why do I still find myself falling into its absurd trap? I lean forward and gag into the sink, spitting toothpaste and watching it slowly makes its way to the drain.

"Jesus, Gray. You would've thought you would figure out I was cheating already."

He claps me on the back and then leaves the bathroom and I don't find my voice fast enough to tell him I've known for years.

Instead, I shut the door and turn on the water in the shower. As cold as it gets. I stand under the steady stream of water, letting the freezing geyser spray over my neck and shoulders, dilute my hair until they're just long, sodden strands dripping coils of water down my already soaked skin.

Cold showers help me focus. They make me numb and freezing until all I can focus on is going to sleep. They help ward off dazes, even if just for a few minutes. Sometimes. If I'm lucky. I wait until my fingers begin to turn blue and purple at the very tips, staining my pale skin like a bruise. As they begin to feel numb, and my body convulses with a shiver, I finally turn off the water, standing soaking wet as I wait for the last droplets to weave in between my toes and slip down the drain.

I dry myself off and pull my clothes back on, and then pad back into my dad's old room. I shut the door behind me, and look at his photos from across the room in the dim lighting. My father's smiling faces with people I know and people I don't know. I wish I had more photographs with my friends. I always did love photographs…

 _I like the idea of pictures. I like the idea of a moment frozen in time forever. So real it's like you can almost go back and see it for real instead of letting your brain try to fill in frayed ends and fading memories with warped realities and perceptions._

 _You can see your mother graduate. You can see people you know with people you don't know in moments that you never knew existed. In a reality that once existed, and now doesn't._

Standing alone, practically vibrating in the cold Canadian air, I feel very vulnerable. Exceptionally alone. And even the weightless, stiff feeling of frozen hands and muscles can't stop that. And I really don't know why I feel like this. I have two friends and a girlfriend. Far more than I ever had before, far more than some people have today. And yet like a spoiled brat, I still feel lonely.

I wonder where my father's old friends and girlfriends and even enemies are now. I hope wherever they are they're happy. I hope they've found the people that make their small little universe feel inhabited. I hope they've found the people that make them feel consistently loved and wanted. I hope they've found the people that they were meant to find. I hope they never have to feel alone.

 _Despite Gray wishing he got invited out by his friends more, the more times he isn't, the easier it is for him to slip away and go hide out in his room. He had no friends in Canada, and he is falling back into his easy acceptance of the fact that he's alone._

I flick off the lights, try to ignore the eyes of the people that people once were on me and climb into bed. All the warmth of being with my family is gone now, and I find myself staring at the dark ceiling, blinking away the burning in my eyes and ignoring the still-present headache.

I think I hear my phone buzz, still in my jeans, wherever those are, but I ignore it. It's probably just a figment of the mind. My skin still feels numb. Maybe I've given myself hypothermia…

Seventeen, I fear, is going to be just as lonely as sixteen.

 ** _Unread Message_**

 ** _Natsu:_** _Happy birthday gray. Well actually I guess I'm too late, cause it's after midnight, but still. I heard you went to Canada for Christmas. I know it's been years, but I have to say the holidays really aren't the same without your Christmas parties. I know you always hated them but I kind of liked them._

IN A SIMILAR fashion to the disappointment of the new year of my existence, the new calendar year starts out with a whimper. A holiday who's buildup is far more exciting than the actual event. But I hold my head up and trudge through the day in a haze of concussion-headaches and exhaustion.

When I reply to Natsu's text we get into a brief conversation, and my heart swells with joy and nostalgia. While I'm laid back in my father's bed, I think about how proud I am of Lucy and Natsu and all the people in my life for being able to decode messages that I assume are a jacked up mix of letters. Lucy texts me and we chat back and forth until my vision is turning the light of the screen into strange blue streaks and I have to say goodbye.

I ask Lyon to drive me to the nearest arts store, and upon arrival after a silent car ride I wander up and down the aisles until I find a good canvas. I don't bother to count my cash, instead I just toss it down and hope I don't burden the cashier with too much change.

He pulls into a gas station, running inside for food. I follow him in and head straight to the counter, suddenly longing for a cigarette. As I stand in line, I look at all the packages lining the wall. Canada doesn't sell American Spirit cigarettes, and I'm glad, because the mere thought of them makes my stomach churn and my head throb.

When it's my turn, I ask for a pack of Dunhill. I read once they're some of the best in Canada—long, sizzling burn, strong tobacco taste. The cashier blinks at me, an eyebrow raised high and skeptical.

"You got ID, kid?"

I blink. In Virginia, I had learned which gas stations workers at which gas stations would card me and which wouldn't and the thought didn't even occur to me. I'm not sure what the legal smoking age in Canada is, but I pull out my driver's license and the cashier scoops it up, eyeing the date through thick-rimmed glasses before he shakes his head, handing it back to me.

"Sorry, kid. No good. You gotta be at least nineteen, and you're only seventeen."

"Oh… Right. Sorry."

"You know you really shouldn't be smoking anyway."

"I don't do it that much… Just gotta clear my head from time to time."

I wish the man a good day and a happy year to come, and he returns the sentiment after I shuffle outside after my waiting brother.

"He's right, you know, you shouldn't smoke."

"Maybe not… I'll quit. Eventually."

My brother is silent the rest of the way home.

MY GRANDMA AND I stay up quite late that night. We chill in her living room and watch reruns of _Full House_ in the dim lighting of her Christmas tree and the glow of outside lights streaming through the window. She's talking to me about my art, telling me she really hopes I can make her something before I leave. I promise to and I mean it. My grandma genuinely deserves the world.

She sighs, rubbing a hand across her brow as she adjusts on her couch. I'm curled up at her feet, head resting on a pillow propped against the arm of a chair, legs coiled into a tight ball in front of me.

"I do wish you guys would come visit more."

"I wish I could visit more too. I miss Canada a lot. Virginia just isn't really the same."

"I know you all have your lives to live, I just hope you keep your poor old grandmother in the loop. I really do love talking to you three."

I pick myself up, switching over to lay my head in her lap. This used to be my favorite thing to do as a kid: to curl up on the couch and lay in either my mom or either of my grandparents laps and let them calm me down if I were upset.

"I'm so proud of you three. I really am. I didn't know how adoption would work out—after all, I knew nothing about it before your parents announced they were adopting you—but I'm so happy with how it did. I'm so glad to have you three as my grandchildren. I'm so proud of Ultear for being so smart and succeeding so well in college, I'm so proud of Lyon for being himself at all times and taking the time he needs to figure out what he wants to do—not many people accept that they have time to decide, and I'm so proud of you for working so hard on what you love to do. And it's paying off."

I smile to myself, feeling the warmth of family spread over my chest as the conversations drone from the TV quietly. The longer we sit there and listen to the TV, the drowsier I get, and I find myself slipping to sleep ever so slowly.

"Please come to visit as soon as you can."

"I will."

"I love you so much, Gray. You and Lyon and Ultear alike."

"I love you too."

"Don't forget me when you hit it big."

"Of course not."

I WAKE UP a few hours later and pull myself up from my grandmother's lap, feeling extremely bad for keeping her stuck on this couch for hours. My grandma's eyes are closed, and she fell asleep with her wine glass in hand, resting on the arm of the couch with her hand wrapped around its neck.

I shake her to wake her up and tell her she should go to bed properly.

But when I touch her shoulder it's stiff. And when I poke at her hand it's cold. And when I glance at her chest it isn't moving.

And when I take her pulse it's not there.

Unsure what to do, I stumble to the room my brother is in. Lyon knows what to do. Lyon always knows what to do.

I speak with jumbled words, and watch as my brother bolts upright and bounds downstairs, stopping in his tracks as he catches sight of our grandmother. He turns, steers my upstairs and to where my dad sleeps, and I feel vomit in my throat and tears in my eyes as I listen to my brother tell my dad what happened.

My dad wakes up Charlotte, runs to wake his brother, and then I hear all their footsteps slap against the staircase as they rush downstairs. Ultear exits her and Meredy's room, drawn by all the noise in the living room.

Lyon explains to her in a quiet voice what's happening, and they ask me how I found her. And I let the floodgates open and stutter out a story of promising to visit, and falling asleep and waking up to find what I found. And the tears welling in my eyes finally break free and I rush into the bathroom and just make it before the contents of my stomach are spilling out, ripping acid through my throat. Tears sting my eyes and my hands shake with an intense vigor.

 _I barely make it out of the car before bile tears my throat apart and I begin heaving onto the pavement. I drop to my knees and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. I quiver on my kneecaps under the green light of a glowing store sign._

When I'm finished, I brush my teeth slowly while Ultear pats my back and Lyon sits on the rim of the bathtub in silence. Processing everything, I suppose.

They steer me to my bedroom and the three of us pile onto the bed like we used to when we were kids and there was a loud storm outside. We barely all fit anymore, but I can't bring myself to care.

Huddled up between my siblings, we offer silent comfort, all three of us crying silently.

I don't know how long we're there, but eventually it all fades away and I let myself forget about what just happened as I fall into a dreamless sleep.

MY UNCLE RIFLES through piles of objects with me, surrounded by boxes in my grandma's room as we try to package up her stuff.

The button of my dress shirt is pinching my skin and my black tie feels far too tight around my neck. I reach into the collar of my shirt and pull out my necklace, clasping it in my hands and feeling it warm under my touch.

 _I light a joint and lay back in my bed, listening to my favorite song as I smoke it. I watch the stars out the window and imagine the feeling of golden hair against my skin. I wrap a hand around my necklace, and as it heats up, I pretend to still feel the warmth of Lucy's hand in mine, and the feeling that spreads over my chest is overwhelmingly calm._

I shake my head to clear the thoughts and keep packing things up. While unsure of who's going to get what, the one thing we all know is none of us can afford to keep my grandma's house in our possession. And even if we could, my grandma always liked her home feeling busy and lively, and she would hate for it to be an empty shell of life.

So we pack up her things immediately after the funeral, before we have to return to Virginia in a few hours so it can be split up. My dad plans to stay behind with his brother and figure out which items to keep and which to get rid of.

I shiver as I pack her items up. It feels so odd to see her room become slowly barren.

"Here, Gray. Keep it. You look like you need it more than I do."

I look up and my uncle is holding out an old sweater of his to me, and I take it gratefully, pulling off my suit jacket and undoing my tie and top button, pulling the sweater over my head. I think it was my grandpa's before it was my uncle's.

"My dad handed that down to me, but I don't have any kids and I feel like you should be the one to get it."

The sweater is very 90s, a blocky pattern of purple and green. I don't remember much about my grandfather these days, but if I focus on the memories imbedded in the sweater, I can remember his rumbling laugh and warm demeanor. I can remember the way he'd ruffle my hair as he stoked the fire when I showed him a new drawing. I can remember the shouts of encouragement and the slap of a baseball against a glove as he practiced in the backyard with Lyon. I can remember the sound of him rustling through Ultear's essays and schoolwork as she showed off her stellar grades. Memories created in this sweater—even more than I can imagine. By both my grandfather and my uncle.

Having the sweater in my possession almost scares me, intimidates me to create memories for this piece of fabric like my family did before me. It makes me feel a little cold. Instead, I dig my nails into my palm, bite the inside of my cheek and keep packing.

I keep wearing the sweater all the way back to Magnolia.

 **a/n I'm sorry the chapter was such a long wait. It was outrageously long. I started working on this chapter immediately after posting the last one but I couldn't seem to churn out the words in a way that made cognitive sense. I hope it was worth the wait at least somewhat.**

 **Also QUESTION (if anyone even sees this) do you want me to do some review responses? I don't know but I might. Thank you for all your support for this story. Drop a review if you want, I'd love it. You don't have to though.**

 **As always it's unedited. Cause I fucking suck.**

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter.**

 **Have a lovely day/evening.**

 **See you next time.**

 **-c.v.**


	21. Part 3: Reconnect

**CAGED**

 **17/18 YEARS OLD (2016)**

 **Part 3: _Reconnect_**

MY ART TEACHER corners me upon my return to school. Due to my grandmother's death, my dad and step-mom allowed me to miss a few extra days to cope. I guess having your grandmother die with you asleep next to her could be considered pretty traumatic.

She tells me she needs me to give her my art project as soon as possible, because the gallery owner would be willing to meet me and her in a week. I tell her it's almost done, and she walks away, satisfied.

I stand in the hallway and watch her disappear, rub a hand across my forehead and return to class myself.

NATSU CORNERS ME after school that day. Well, he doesn't really corner me—because we are in the middle of the parking lot and that is quite impossible—but he does stand in front of me and refuse to let me walk around him, no matter how hard I try to.

"I heard you're gonna be featured in like, a legit gallery," he says after a moment of awkward silence.

"Who told you that?"

Part of me wants to slap the ever-living shit out of myself. Years of wishing for Natsu to reproach me and our friendship and now that he is, I can't seem to trust it. Lyon's worries about Lucy have poisoned my mind, maybe. Maybe not. I can't seem to trust anything lately. Everyone in my life is either going to die like my mom and grandma, leave me like my friends, or leave me floundering in my own senses like my father. Maybe Lyon and Lucy and Natsu have nothing to do with that. Maybe something's just broken inside of me.

"The art teacher. She didn't specifically say it, but she went into a long speech about focusing on art because it could work out when you least expect it, or something like that. I just assumed she was referring to you. So it's true, then?"

"It might be. I'm not sure yet." I try to sidestep him.

He blocks me.

"That's cool."

"Thanks."

I successfully sidestep him this time, but his voice stops me.

"Hey, ice block, wait."

I haven't heard that nickname in years. It sends a shiver down my spine and I turn slowly, trying not to let the hope building up in my chest stack too high.

"Do you maybe wanna go somewhere? Catch up or something like that."

I can see my breath in the air. I can see his too. The slow curls of oxygen signal the period of passing time as I try and gauge his facial expressions. I try to look for any signs of the fake kindness my dad displays to his friends and colleagues (or maybe that actually is true kindness on my dad's face, and it's just not meant for me).

"Yeah. Yeah, sure."

NATSU AND I sit on a cold park bench and I can feel warmth radiating from his side. Our breath is stark in front of our faces as we silently gaze out at the vast white plain of the park looming before us. For the most part, each of us is silent. I think neither of us knows what to say.

"So… How have you been?" My attempt to converse is lackluster, but Natsu quirks his lips into a small smile—to humor me, if for nothing else—and I'm grateful.

"Been better, been worse. Can't really complain, I guess," he says.

I nod, tapping my fingertips against the rough fabric of my jeans as my eyes flicker across the park. There are small flurries beginning to drift lazily downwards, and I count them as they fall, but I lose track soon enough and have to start over.

Natsu remains silent. He was never this quiet before. He was never this quiet when I'd see him the hallways and classrooms and restaurants and parties. Something about me just seems to suck the life out of people.

If Mom were here, maybe she'd manage to reassure me that that's not true. She was always the best at drawing me out of my chrysalis into the real world. But nowadays I just let myself drift away into bitter, bitter, bittersweet memories and hazy recollections of the past, as well as wispy dream worlds and half-baked fantasies. The entire world could move on without me and I wouldn't be able to break my dull daze.

Sometimes I wish I could just sink into the floor and disappear into the waves of my deepest subconscious and let the world change, age and eventually wither without me.

"If I'm being honest, I don't really think I know why I stopped being your friend," Natsu says suddenly, snapping me from snowflake counting and somber wishes.

"What do you mean?"

"Like I was just pissed, but it didn't really make sense because I wasn't _really_ … I don't know. I think just seeing your dad flip out on you, and seeing you starting to withdraw a little more—I guess it scared me. I didn't want to be around to see you fall apart and feel like it was my fault. Pretty selfish, looking back."

"Not really. I don't think I'd want to see someone I care about do that stuff either."

"Well, regardless, I'm sorry. Can we maybe try and start over?"

After that, the conversation comes a bit easier.

 **A/N I'm so sorry the wait was so long and that this chapter was so short and bad. I really am going to try and swing into this story again.**

 **It might take me a little to get my flow back, especially because my mom recently passed away and I'm busy with arrangements, but I really, really will try my hardest.**

 **I'm sorry.**

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **Hope you enjoyed it.**

 **Have a wonderful day/night, lovelies.**

 **-c.v.**


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